


The Silver Stud

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: The Silver Stud [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward Dates, BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), BAMF Sally Donovan, Gay Bar, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Stereotypes, all for a good cause though at least in Sherlock's mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-05-21 19:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg is surprised to see Mycroft outside a fairly seedy gay bar. He's even more surprised when Mycroft visits him and suggests a date.





	1. Spotted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookjunkiecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/gifts).



> From a ten minute bit I posted on tumblr. More was requested, and so here we all are...

“Detective Inspector.”

“Mycroft? Christ, what are you doing here?” Greg stretched. Paperwork was a bitch, and his back was not a fan.

“I apologise, I am aware it is quite late.”

“Late?” Greg checked his watch. “It’s past midnight on a Wednesday, Mycroft.”

“Of course. I apologise, I’ll leave you in peace.”

“What are you talking about? Come in.”

Mycroft sat on the guest seat in Greg’s office.

“What can I do for you?” Greg prompted, when he didn’t look like speaking.

Mycroft opened his mouth to begin speaking, then closed it again. He looked a little helplessly at Greg.

“Ah.” Greg nodded, sitting back. “This is about last week.”

“It is.”

“I thought it was you. You saw me coming out of The Silver Stud.”

“I did.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “Were you planning on having a drink?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “I had been…considering it.”

“Socially?” Greg asked.

“It would be extremely unlikely I would see anyone I know in such a venue.” Mycroft replied. “They do have private function rooms, and an associate of mine had offered a small group the opportunity to experience the venue.”

“Right.” Greg replied, not entirely sue what Mycroft was saying.

“I have been making an effort to, as my dear mother puts it, ‘meet someone’ for a while,” Mycroft admitted. “I found a discrete group of men in my age range and social situation. We meet semi regularly to talk. Some pursue other members, some are there for support.”

“And you?” Greg asked, wondering where the hell this conversation was going.

“I have not met anyone in that group I would be prepared to date,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg thought about that statement. He thought about the fact that Mycroft was coming to see him here and now, after realising Greg had been visiting the most overtly gay bar in London. A possibility coalesced in his mind.

“No-one in that group,” Greg repeated. “What about outside of that group?”

The flush was answer enough. Mycroft cleared his throat, but did not answer.

“Well not only am I flattered,” Greg said, leaning forward and grinning, “but I’m interested if you are.”

Mycroft looked up, surprise written all over his face. “Sincerely?” he asked.

“Yep,” Greg replied. He checked his watch. “Bit late for a drink now, but how about Friday night?”

Mycroft nodded without speaking.

“Great. Text me. We can meet wherever you like. Well, maybe not the Silver Stud.” Greg grimaced. “Beer’s overpriced and the tables are sticky.”

They both shuddered before sharing a grin.

“I will be in touch,” Mycroft murmured, the high spots in his cheeks the only indication of his emotional state.

“See you later,” Greg said, watching him leave.

Picking up a pen, he scrawled _MH, drinks_ on his weekly planner.

Excellent.


	2. Quirinus

Bloody hell, he was meeting Mycroft for a drink. The thought had dogged Greg all day Friday and a considerable part of the preceding day, too. He’d never thought Mycroft would be interested in him, and then one night the man himself just walks into Greg’s office and announces he’s gay, and by the way he’d quite like a date. Well, more or less.

Either way, Greg would be meeting Mycroft at a pub he’d never heard of, in a part of town he only frequented if someone had managed to get themselves stabbed.

Assuming that would not be the case, Greg was quietly panicking all day. At first he was doing a general ‘I have a date’ panic, which quickly morphed into ‘we’d better not pick up a murder’ panic as the day wore on. He might not get another shot at this, and if Mycroft was in the same state as he was, an excuse might be just the thing he was hoping for in order to cancel this whole event.

Just as Greg was worrying that Mycroft might have someone knifed to specifically to avoid their date, Sally stuck her head in his office door.

“Boss?”

“Yeah?” he answered distractedly.

“It’s five o’clock. Get your arse out of here, will you?” She grinned at him and he returned it as he grabbed his things and bolted. More than once a case had appeared between his office and the tube, and he was not going to be that unlucky sod. Not today.

Greg’s mind wandered all the way home and through his shower-and-a-shave routine. Before he knew it, he was standing in his bedroom wondering what to wear. Pants and socks, he’d managed without too much thought – little chance of Mycroft seeing those tonight.

Dressing for a pub was easy. Dressing for a date, also easy. Dressing for a date in a fancy pub was way beyond his comfort zone. The clock ticked inexorably by as he pulled out and considered almost everything in his wardrobe, despairing at his own lack of interest in clothes.

Finally, when the clock told him he had to get moving, Greg went by his old Academy roommates’ maxim – dress so you feel good. He chose his favourite dark blue shirt and navy blazer, with dark blue jeans. The jeans were made to fit his arse, so he’d been told, and the shirt and blazer combo would get him into all but the swankiest of pubs. If he was rejected from the place Mycroft had chosen, he didn’t belong there anyway. A quick spike of his hair – the silver stood out bright against the last of his holiday tan – and he was ready to go.

The place looked exactly as intimidating as Greg had imagined. No grungy side alleyway, no grotty windows plastered with posters advertising bands. No, the front of this pub screamed money and discretion. Greg wondered if anyone ever asked the barkeep to switch the telly to the football, or ordered the cheapest bourbon sight unseen. Unlikely, he thought, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stared at the tasteful gold lettering proclaiming _Quirinus_. Sounded like some kind of Roman God or something, Greg thought to himself. Not something he was too familiar with.

“Good evening, Greg,” Mycroft’s voice came from behind him.

“Hi,” Greg said, spinning around hastily.

“I see you found the venue easily enough,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg replied, feeling dumb as an ox. Could he say nothing more intelligent? It was probably the sight of Mycroft, as dressed down as Greg had ever seen him.

“You’re not wearing a tie,” Greg said, feeling his cheeks redden at the obvious comment.

“No,” Mycroft allowed. He smoothed one hand over his waistcoat, a deep blue with some kind of tiny crosshatched pattern. The white shirt visible above it was crisp and perfect, and Greg wondered with a jolt whether Mycroft had changed from his work attire for their date. It would certainly bolter his confidence to think so, given the hand wringing that had accompanied his own dressing for this evening.

“You’re staring, Greg,” Mycroft’s voice admonished him gently, and Greg’s cheeks flushed even further.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Never seen you in less than full battle dress.”

Mycroft’s eye brows rose at the description of his usual three piece suit tie and accruements. “I’m usually going into battle,” he replied.

“Not tonight?” Greg asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

“It seems not,” Mycroft replied. “Shall we?” he indicated the door, and Greg turned to enter. There was a bouncer, dressed in a suit worth more than anything Greg owned for sure. He eyed Greg before catching sight of Mycroft.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” he said with a slight bow. Greg stared in astonishment as the door was opened for them. Only the gentle pressure of Mycroft’s hand on his lower back reminded him he was expected to walk through the opening.

The bar was exactly as Greg imagined many pubs looked on the day they were built, and then never again. Gold fixtures, deeply polished woodwork, every surface impeccable. The leather seats of the booths were gleaming, and he knew without checking that the floor would not be sticky with the remnants of some long spilled beer.

“May I buy you a drink, Greg?” Mycroft asked as they approached the bar. They had beer on tap, Greg saw with relief – better the safety of a pint than trying to navigate an intimidatingly long wine or spirits list.

“Pint of bitter, thanks Mycroft,” Greg replied. The barman poured their drinks, passing the beer to Greg and a white wine to Mycroft.

“This place is amazing,” Greg said, turning to survey the room. The room was comfortably full without being crowded, and he noticed quite a lot of well-dressed men. All well-dressed men, come to think of it.

“Mycroft,” Greg asked him casually, “is this pub….”

“Similar, yes,” Mycroft replied, leading the way towards a recently available booth. “The tables here are not as sticky, however,” he added as they slid onto opposite bench seats.

“True,” Greg replied. “It’s all very clean, actually.”

“The clientele at this venue are screened rather closely,” Mycroft admitted. “Anyone is free to join, and there is no cost; however only members and their immediate guests are permitted. As you can see,” he swept one arm around the gently pulsing room, “rowdy behaviour is not tolerated.”

“A well behaved gay bar, then,” Greg replied, feeling like the term was a slight oxymoron. His experience had obviously been at the seedy end of the spectrum. He sipped at his beer. “Is this where your group usually meets, then?”

Mycroft flushed at the mention of his social group. “We did initially meet at this bar. I believe it was one of the regulars who proposed it as a way of...”

“Meeting people?” Greg suggested.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed.

“It can be hard to meet someone,” Greg said. “Anyone, really, around work. Especially when you’re looking to meet another bloke. It always has to be arranged, never seems to just happen.”

“I understand what you mean,” Mycroft said. “Work can be all encompassing.”

Greg wasn’t sure what to say. The last thing he wanted to do was start talking about work. This was meant to be a date, nothing like their previous meetings. Most of them had revolved around Sherlock, another topic he wanted to avoid tonight.

Greg’s mind raced, and he watched Mycroft play with the stem of his wine glass. Those fingers, he thought ruefully. His brain could not possibly find a new topic of conversation while Mycroft’s fingers did such suggestive things to the poor innocent wine glass.

Nope, there was nothing for it. He’d have to respond to the work comment.

“And it’s hardly a topic for conversation,” Greg added, hoping Mycroft would remember what they’d been talking about. “Assuming it’s something I can talk about at all.” He shot an amused glance at Mycroft. “I expect that’s something you can relate to.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft’s response was swift. “Some…men find it hard to accept that it is simply not appropriate for me to discuss my employment.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, his eyes still fixed on the fingers running up and down the slim glass stem. _Christ_. “I’ve had a few ask for favours. Ever had that happen?”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft agreed. “One odious man asked if I could have his neighbour’s garage demolished so his swimming pool would not be shaded in the summer.”

Greg snorted a laugh, relieved their conversation was moving again. “How charming.”

“Unfortunately this group did not turn out as I had hoped. While there are a few individuals I could potentially enjoy a cordial conversation with, none appealed for a more personal connection.”

“Lucky for me,” Greg said. Mycroft’s blush was adorable, he decided, watching the pale skin flame into a rosy glow.

“My mother remains disappointed,” Mycroft replied.

“As does mine,” Greg told him.

“But you were married.” Mycroft said. Greg could see the slight wince at such a brazen comment slipping out.

“Past tense,” Greg told him. “Clearly my fault for not fulfilling my wife.” The pain of that particular conversation with his mother was still fresh, and their relationship was still strained by her accusations.

An awkward silence fell again, and Greg kicked himself for the bitter words. _Neither the time nor the place to start complaining about the ex, you idiot_ , he berated himself _._

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she thinks bi men are incapable of settling down with a woman. Or a man,” he added. _Fuck_. Also a not-so-good comment. He wanted to focus on Mycroft, not his pathetic past.

Shaking off the melancholy this conversation was bringing on him, Greg sat up and smiled at Mycroft.

“So this is more your speed than The Silver Stud?” Greg asked.

“Definitely.” Mycroft replied immediately. “May I ask what you were doing at that bar?”

“Meeting a mate,” Greg said easily. “I knew Rob before I was married and he’s very much into that kind of scene. I told him I’d meet him wherever he wanted and I think he took that as a challenge.”

“So it is not your usual haunt either,” Mycroft said.

“God, no,” Greg replied. “This place does me just fine. I usually go to the pub around the corner from work, or there’s one nearer home. Kind of like this but less clean. Somewhere you can get a bowl of chips and the football on.”

Mycroft nodded. “Somewhere comfortable.”

“Exactly.” Greg said. “The Silver Stud is a lot of things, but comfortable is not one of them.” He drained the last of his pint, wondering if he should order another. Mycroft’s glass was empty, and he had made no effort to replenish it. Glancing over at Mycroft gave him his answer – the man was looking at his pocket watch. _Ready to leave, then._ Greg ignored the stab of surprised hurt at the realisation.

_Am I boring him?_

“Well thanks for the drink, Mycroft. I don’t want to keep you.”

“Of course, Greg. Thank you for meeting me.” Mycroft stood immediately, ever polite as Greg slid from the booth.

“No problem, it’s a great place.”

“I can introduce you to David if you’d like to apply for membership. I would endorse you, of course.”

“Really? Thanks, I’ll think about it.” Greg replied. He didn’t want to intrude on Mycroft’s social space. Nothing worse than having to avoid somewhere in order to avoid some _one_.

They both stood awkwardly beside the booth. _Christ_ , Greg thought, _what the hell am I even doing?_

“I’ll call you,” Greg said, then realised, “Actually, I don’t have your number.” It was awkward to ask for Mycroft’s number, he thought – presumptuous. “I’ll see you around.” He hesitated, then added, “I had a great time, Mycroft.”

He smiled briefly, the answering lift of Mycroft’s mouth far more automatic than truly happy. Greg left the pub, bracing for the cold night air. The date had just…ended, and he wasn’t really sure why. Wrapping his arms around himself, Greg started walking home, wondering what Mycroft’s deal was.


	3. Worse Than High School

“So?” Sally asked him as they arrived at work on Saturday. They’d both opted to work this weekend shift – Sally needed the overtime now that she was single, and Greg had wanted…well, something to do, if he was honest with himself. The date with Mycroft was the first in a long time, and the rhythm of his life was pretty boring. Even just an extra shift was worth putting in the calendar, and as extra staff, there was a good chance he’d get a pile of paperwork done.

“So what?” Greg asked defensively. Sally eyed him for a moment before plopping herself down in the chair opposite him. Greg’s scowl did nothing to dislodge her.

“You look far too well rested to have had a spectacular night,” Sally said, “though there could have been an end of night snog I’m not seeing?” When Greg remained stony face she ventured, “Not even a nice time with the promise of another?”

“No,” Greg admitted, allowing his shoulders to fall in defeat.

“Christ, what did you do?” Sally asked.

“Thanks for that,” Greg grumbled.

“You know what I mean.” she said. “Besides, you look more annoyed at yourself than angry.”

Greg had to admit she was right.

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “The pub was nice, like really nice. More of a private club, really. Membership and everything.” He fiddled with his pen. “I dunno, the conversation was mostly good…”

“But?” Sally prodded.

“I blew it, alright?” Greg said. “Stupid comments, staring around the place like I’d never been anywhere nicer than the local for a beer. Too distracted to hold up my end of the conversation. More stupid comments.”

“What kind of stupid comments?” Sally asked. “I mean, you didn’t bring up your ex or anything.”

Greg looked at her helplessly.

“Christ,” she muttered.

“Twice,” Greg muttered miserably. “He more or less ignored it, I think. Too polite not to.”

“So why don’t you call him?” Sally asked tentatively. “I’m sure he was nervous too.”

“Maybe, but he was clear he was ready to leave,” Greg said. “And I don’t have his number.”

Sally frowned. “How did you set up the date, then?”

“His PA contacted me,” Greg admitted.

“His PA…” Sally repeated in amazement. Greg could feel her eyes on him as he closed his eyes. He would be single forever. He would be single forever and he would die smothered by the weight of the cats he fostered off the streets and nobody would notice until the smell seeped out.

“Right,” Sally said. Her tone of voice was business-like. “This PA, what’s her name?”

“Anthea,” Greg replied without opening his eyes.

“Give me your phone,” Sally said.

Greg opened his eyes to see her holding one hand out expectantly. “Um, no,” he said pointedly.

Sally sighed dramatically. “I’m not going to do anything stupid,” she said, wiggling her fingers in a ‘give it here’ motion.

Greg fished his phone out of his jacket pocket, passing it over with reluctance.

“Ta,” Sally said, opening his phone and finding Anthea’s number.

“How did you…” Greg started to ask, but she held up one finger as the phone rang.

“Anthea? This is Sally Donovan. I work with Greg Lestrade.” She nodded for a moment, then went on, “Yes. The date last night wasn’t that great, and Greg wants to know if Mycroft would be interested in going out again. Maybe somewhere a little less…” She trailed off, but Anthea must have supplied an appropriate word, because she grinned. “Exactly. Can you set something up?”

Greg watched in astonishment as Sally arranged another date for him via Anthea, giving her details of his preferences even he wasn’t aware of.

When she’d hung up and put his phone down on his desk, Greg looked at her speechlessly.

“You’re welcome,” she told him.

“So what’s happening, then?” he asked, for want of a better question.

“He’s been as distracted as you the last few days, and very quiet this morning,” Sally told him. “Anthea’s pretty sure he’s not happy with how things went either.”

“God, this feels like high school,” Greg groaned.

“It is,” Sally told him. “You two clearly need help communicating, so we are doing it for you.”

“Right,” Greg said faintly. “So…she’ll call me?”

“She’ll call you.” Sally confirmed. “Was there anything else?”

 “No,” Greg replied, still preoccupied.

“Right,” Sally answered, and he heard her close the door behind herself.

What the hell had just happened? Yes, the date had been…uncomfortable. He was sure Mycroft had been ready to leave. Greg thought back to it. No refill on his drink, readiness to go as soon as Greg suggested it, didn’t offer his phone number.

Signs of disinterest, he’d thought. But could be signs of discomfort instead. Someone that was interested but wary of appearing too forward. Unsure of the social norms.

Not exactly an analysis that gelled with the man who visits specifically to ask you out, Greg reminded himself. Although while Mycroft had shown up (at midnight on a Wednesday), Greg had done most of the actual talking. And the deducing, when Mycroft’s body language told more than his words.

Okay, Greg thought to himself, what if he hasn’t had a lot of dating experience? He pictured Mycroft. Or experience expressing himself, Greg added. It made sense, given the persona he’d obviously worked hard to cultivate, the isolation he was used to. Even the way he’d gone about finding someone – joining a group of similar men at a private club – wasn’t really going to get him out to meet many new people. It was safe. Greg could understand that. So if he recast Mycroft as inexperienced rather than reticent, he saw a far different picture. Awkward instead of aloof. Uncertain instead of disinterested.

Greg sighed. It was a good theory but he needed evidence.

There was really only one way to get to the bottom of it. Damn Sally for making him think about this. He could have just been miserable for a while, then gone on with his life. Instead he was facing a very uncomfortable phone call.

Irritably, he picked up his phone and dialled Anthea.

“Yes?” she answered.

“It’s Greg,” he said shortly. “I need to talk to him.”

Silence. Greg realised how he must sound. He took a deep breath.

“I’m not angry with him, I’m angry with me,” he said, gritting his teeth as he admitted this to her instead of him. “I want to apologise. I would rather make arrangements between the two of us instead of through our respective intermediates.”

Silence again. _Testing me._ Bloody annoying.

“If you could tell him that and give him my number, he could call me if that sounds good to him,” Greg tried.

“Certainly,” Anthea replied, then hung up without another word.

“Thanks,” Greg told the dead air.

 _So it’s in Mycroft’s hands then. And out of Sally and Anthea’s._ Greg groaned. He had been wrong. This was worse than high school. Far, far worse.


	4. Excruciating Conversation

Greg groaned and stretched, feeling the fabric of his sofa press across his forearm as it rose over the end cushions. He and Sally had worked through a huge pile of paperwork, and he knew he could relax tomorrow – a voluntary weekend shift precluded him from being on call. For once he was prepared for his review on Monday morning; it seemed the murderers of London had cut him a break.

Not that he was going to jinx anything by saying it out loud.

He’d indulged this afternoon though, leaving a little early, crashing on his sofa for a while. There was a football match on and an Indian takeaway with his name on it. Sally’s new place was around the corner and she’d discovered somewhere new. They were a little more expensive, but they delivered, and that in itself was worth every extra penny. The local food couriers were rubbish, and half a dozen lost or cold meals had turned Greg off using them. The days he made it home in reasonable time to eat a meal, Greg wanted only ever to collapse on his sofa in track pants and not have to go out again.

He’d happily pay for reliable delivery, lazy bastard that he was.

Speaking of which, something had woken him from a truly excellent kip. He frowned as the buzz of silicone case against his coffee table reminded him that a text had come in very recently. Greg gave it the side eye for a moment, tossing up leaving it before realising he’d need to open it to order his takeaway anyway.

He reached out without getting up, blinking at the bright screen.

_Good evening Gregory._

_[6.17pm]_

 

Unknown number? Greg frowned. Clearly this person knew him. Who would…a flutter rose in his stomach as the only solution presented it himself. Hastily, he unlocked his phone and typed a reply.

 

_Mycroft?_

_[6.21pm]_

_Of course._

_[6.22pm]_

 

Although it was confirming what he already knew, Greg swallowed hard. He hadn’t been expecting Mycroft to get back to him quite so soon. A small part had been expecting no contact at all from the other man.

But he had made the first contact, and from the swift reply, he was waiting on the other end. Greg typed a quick response, then another. _Maybe a bit of a joke to break the heavy mood._

 

_Right._

_Do you want to talk? Or arrange another date?_

_[6.25pm]_

_Thanks for contacting me, by the way._

_I’d rather do this without the gossip girls_

_looking over our shoulders._

_[6.26pm]_

_I can’t speak for Sergeant Donovan but Anthea is extremely discrete_

_and not prone to idle gossip._

_[6.27pm]_

 

Greg winced. He should have known better.

 

_Pop culture reference there._

_Sorry._

_[6.29pm]_

_Of course._

_My apologies._

_[6.30pm]_

 

Bloody hell. There was no way this was going to be smooth and easy. Considering they were doing this by text, it was far less embarrassing to be honest. His next message formed itself quickly.

 

_Christ._

_Sally was right._

_We are terrible at communicating._

_And this is awkward as hell._

_[6.35pm]_

_Correct on both counts._

_[6.37pm]_

_Do you wish to end our association?_

_[6.39pm]_

 

Fuck.

 

_NO._

_[6.40pm]_

Greg swallowed again. There was no way he was going to stuff this up. Not this time. With shaking fingers he typed a careful response, making sure to use ’we’ instead of ‘you.’

This wasn’t going to come naturally to him either.

 

_Hell no._

_Just means we’ll have to put in some effort._

_I’m willing if you are._

_[6.43pm]_

_Yes. I am._

_Perhaps we could begin by discussing the assumptions made at Quirinus._

_It appears neither of us understood the other fully._

_[6.46pm]_

_Okay._

_Do you want me to go first?_

_[6.48pm]_

_Whatever you prefer is fine._

_[6.50pm]_

 

Greg snorted, typing an immediate reply.

_No way._

_Express an opinion, Mycroft._

_I want to know what you want._

_I won’t bite your head off._

_[6.51pm]_

 

He smirked at his phone, practically able to see Mycroft sighing at his own screen. Hopefully it was that adorable ‘I’ll play along with your ridiculous games’ expression, the one he used when he was about to indulge his brother.

Greg loved that one.

As he waited, Greg pulled up the app for the Indian place, debating the merits of korma versus vindaloo as he waited for Mycroft’s reply. When it finally came, he’d just decided to order both. What the hell, he had the day off tomorrow.

 

_Very well._

_I would prefer you go first._

_[6.59pm]_

 

Greg grinned, before realising how difficult it would be to put what had happened into words. He watched the clock tick over as he agonised over wording, wanting to be clear but not offensive.

 

_Right._

_[7.00pm]_

_This isn’t going to come out right._

_[7.07pm]_

 

Groaning in frustration he sent out a message, hoping it would buy him time to think.

_I probably got it all wrong and it sounds stupid now._

_[7.13pm]_

_No stalling please._

_[7.14pm]_

 

Fine. He took a deep breath and decided to go with the facts.

 

_Okay._

_Well you didn’t get up to refill your drink._

_You were looking at your pocket watch._

_As soon as I suggested going home you jumped up without protesting._

_You didn’t offer me your number even when I mentioned I didn’t have it._

_And I talked about my ex._

_[7.19pm]_

 

Mycroft’s reply was immediate. How fast did he read, Greg thought to himself.

 

_Twice._

_[7.19pm]_

_Yes, I know. Ta for that._

_[7.20pm]_

_So you assumed I was not interested in the conversation?_

_[7.23pm]_

 

_Yeah._

_[7.24pm]_

_In you._

_[7.25pm]_

 

Greg felt his face burning as he answered Mycroft’s questions. The man's questioning was nothing if not direct, by text message at least. Hopefully that boded well for the rest of the conversation.

 

_Yes._

_Your turn._

_[7.25pm]_

 

Assuming it would take a few minutes, Greg heaved himself off the sofa. He headed for the kitchen, grabbing a beer and a spoon on the way. He did have a table, tiny though it was, but it was easier to eat at the coffee table most nights. Watching the football with a beer and a takeaway and no chance of being called to work was about as good as his life got right now, Greg thought to himself.

He wasn’t sure if that was depressing or not. Talking to Mycroft certainly improved things, though.

When he made it back to the sitting room he saw Mycroft’s reply waiting for him.

 

_I came to the same assumption, based on the following evidence:_

_You concluded our conversation in a decisive manner._

_You did not sound enthusiastic about my offer to endorse your membership._

_You did not ask for my phone number, nor did you propose an alternative means of communication or another date._

_And you did mention your ex-wife._

_Twice._

_[7.31pm]_

 

Reading the list, Greg had to admit the man had a point. They really did need to explain themselves, didn’t they?

Reading on Greg grinned, feeling the butterflies return. That was a lot like flirting, the bit at the end about his ex-wife. He didn’t know Mycroft did that, but it was kind of…arousing.

 

_I’m never going to live that down, am I?_

_[7.33pm]_

_I am not implying that you are still interested in her._

_Quite the opposite, in fact._

_[7.35pm]_

_What?_

_[7.36pm]_

_My impression, to be brutally honest, was that you still sounded_

_emotionally compromised by your separation_

_and may not wish to enter another relationship at this time._

_[7.38pm]_

 

“Harsh,” Greg murmured to himself. _But true,_ he had to admit. The first part, anyway. You didn’t have someone stomp on your heart the way his ex had without taking some time to get over it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in Mycroft.

Greg couldn’t think of a way to say that without it sounding corny, though, so he typed something light instead.

 

_Yeah, I’m still working through it a bit._

_[7.41pm]_

_Really._

_You hide it well._

_[7.42pm]_

_Oi!_

_[7.42pm]_

_My apologies._

_[7.43pm]_

 

These apologies seemed a lot less sincere this time. Greg felt a smile playing over his face and he suddenly wondered where Mycroft was. Clearly not in a meeting, from the speed of his replies. It was getting on in the evening though – would he still be at work? Or was he sitting on his own sofa, socked feet on the coffee table, drinking some incredibly expensive Scotch and smiling quietly at his mobile…

Reading back over their last exchange, Greg realised he had to correct Mycroft’s misapprehension. He typed quickly, noticing the daydreaming had taken up a few moments since Mycroft’s message.

 

_Just kidding._

_You’re right about the first bit…_

_Why did you think I’d asked you out in the first place, Mycroft?_

_[7.49pm]_

 

Picking at the label on his beer, Greg realised he was nervous. What motive did Mycroft think he was hiding? The response was blessedly quick, and his eyes skimmed anxiously over the words.

 

_I assumed that once you’d realised why I had_

_arrive at your office at such an unusual hour,_

_you would be hoping for something more physical._

_Less serious._

_[7.52pm]_

_A fling._

_[7.54pm]_

_Precisely._

_[7.54pm]_

 

Greg’s heart was pounding now. What was Mycroft implying? It sure as hell sounded to Greg like he was interested in something more significant that a few shags. And if he thought Greg was still too wounded from his ex, it would make sense for him to back off.

Fuck.

Again, no way to know without asking.

_Carefully, go carefully._

 

_And that’s not what you’re interested in?_

_[7.55pm]_

_If we are being honest, Greg, no I am not._

_[7.57pm]_

_Keep going with that honesty, Mycroft._

_What are you hoping for here?_

_[8.01pm]_

 

Greg swallowed, willing Mycroft on.

_You can do it. We can do it together._

His beer was almost done, and the food was due any second. Watching for a reply was worse than waiting for a jury to come back on a weak case; he found his wallet instead and pulled out some money for the delivery kid.

The timing was perfect, one of those few instances of things happening exactly right. As Greg made to drop the money on the hall table, there was a knock at the door, and as he turned back to the room, clutching his meal, the swooping sound effect sounded on his phone.

Mycroft had replied.

 

_Should we ever be able to communicate effectively in person,_

_I would very much like to explore the possibility_

_of a longer term arrangement._

_[8.09pm]_

 

Greg let out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding. A quick clarification, holding the phone, waiting for the reply that would be short either way…

_You want to date me. Exclusively._

_[8.11pm]_

_I do._

_Very much._

_[8.12pm]_

 

…yes. _Yes._

He nodded to himself, typing without thinking.

 

_Okay._

_[8.12pm]_

_Okay?_

_That response is not clear._

_[8.13pm]_

_Yes._

_Okay. That sounds great to me._

_:)_

_[8.14pm]_

 

The smiley face was a bit silly, but Greg _felt_ a bit silly. The butterflies were gone for the moment, replaced by a swooping elation at this confirmation. No matter how badly they’d messed up the last date, Mycroft was still interested.

 

_It does?_

_[8.14pm]_

_Yes, Mycroft._

_If I’m not being completely clear, I would love to date you._

_Exclusively._

_[8.16pm]_

Greg wondered if Mycroft had let out a breath of his own at the words. Those magnificent grey eyes would be locked to his screen, Greg thought.

He tossed his own phone aside for the moment, turning his attention to the patiently waiting food. There was nothing like the sound of the paper bag being ripped open, and he had a predictably Pavlovian response to it. Good thing they didn’t deliver evidence to him in these bags, he thought, grinning to himself.

With a smile, Greg pulled out his dinner, opening all the boxes, breathing in aromatic steam, loving the hedonism of ordering everything he felt like. Leftovers would keep until tomorrow anyway.

As he spooned rice into his plastic korma container, mixing it thought the sauce, his phone pinged.

 

_It seems we have reached an accord._

_[8.19pm]_

With a smirk, Greg typed one handed, trying to avoid getting sauce on his screen.

 

_If you mean we’ve agreed, yes we have._

_I do think we should meet for another drink._

_Actually talk about last night._

_[8.23pm]_

_That sounds excruciating._

_[8.24pm]_

 

The smirk widened. He could definitely picture Mycroft’s face now, the wince of almost physical pain at Greg’s suggestion. It would be excruciating, but Greg also knew they had to sort out all the misunderstandings from last night before they could move forward.

 

_Yep._

_Necessary, though. Clear the air and all that._

_[8.25pm]_

_Very well._

_Might I offer you the opportunity to choose our venue?_

_[8.29pm]_

 

Interesting. Would Mycroft expect him to pick some local pub? They could hardly have a decent conversation somewhere like that, especially in the middle of football season. Plus Mycroft probably wouldn’t be comfortable somewhere with sticky tables.

That reminded him of the Silver Stud, which reminded him of Mycroft. Greg grinned at the circularity of his thoughts. He wondered how Mycroft would react, knowing Greg associated him with the most flamboyant club in town.

Another idea presented itself, and Greg jumped at it, his confidence up after their conversation so far.

 

_Sure._

_2pm tomorrow work for you?_

_Here’s the address._

_[8.32pm]_

_That time is acceptable._

_[8.33pm]_

_This is a private residence, Gregory._

_[8.35pm]_

Greg snorted again, wiping his hand on a serviette before responding.

_Do not pretend for even a second you didn’t know it’s my flat._

_Chips, beer, football, excruciating conversation._

_[8.38pm]_

_Certainly._

_I look forward to it._

_[8.39pm]_

 

Reluctant to let this end, and still riding a bit of a high after the unexpectedly successful conversation, Greg typed an immediate reply.

 

_There is a dress code, Mycroft._

_[8.40pm]_

_I shudder to think._

_I do not own track pants, Gregory._

_[8.43pm]_

A bubble of laughter rose up, and Greg allowed it to. The man was bloody psychic. Pushing the half empty containers away, Greg slumped down on the sofa again, full and content. He felt like a teenager, half flirting over text messages, safe to say things without having to look the other person in the eye.

Secret things, sometimes.

Important things.

He chewed on his lip as he wrote, sending each sentence as it formed, his brain unable to stop making additions until he swore softly and dropped his phone to his chest, nervous.

 

_Oi!_

_Seriously, though, it’s just gonna be you and me._

_[8.44pm]_

_Maybe I could get the casual Mycroft?_

_[8.44pm]_

_If you’re comfortable._

_[8.45pm]_

_The suits work for me too._

_[8.46pm]_

_Sorry, I’ll stop now, this is a ridiculous number of messages in a row._

_[8.48pm]_

 

His heart thumped as he waited for Mycroft to consider his suggestion.

 

_I will endeavour to find ‘casual Mycroft’ on your behalf._

_[8.50pm]_

_And now I’ll dream about ‘casual Mycroft’._

Greg swallowed hard, several options already presenting themselves for his consideration. He ignored them (mostly), instead composing a bland reply with none of the innuendo that had first come to mind.

 

_Great, see you tomorrow then. :)_

_[8.51pm]_

_I should warn you I do not ‘do’ faces of any kind._

_[8.53pm]_

_No problem. I’ll wear you down. ;)_

_[8.55pm]_

_You will not._

_[8.56pm]_

_We’ll see._

_[8.58pm]_

_I look forward to it._

_Good evening, Greg._

_[9.00pm]_

Greg looked back at the previous banter, his heart thudding again.

Definite flirting. And they were meeting at his place, in private.

Christ.

 

_Bye, Mycroft._

_[9.02pm]_


	5. Twink

Greg slept well enough, though he woke at first light, unable to relax enough to drift back off. It took a moment before he realised why his heart was thumping just a little harder than it needed to. Mycroft. The idea flooded his body with adrenalin. Greg stared at the ceiling for a while until he could ignore his bladder no longer. Tempted though he was to return to bed, the nervous energy running through him necessitated him doing something energetic with his morning.

Ignoring the obvious ‘energetic solo time in bed’ option, Greg opted for a run. The fresh air would do him good, he reckoned. Clear his mind and all that.

He dug his running gear out, wishing he’d actually bought the new runners he’d promised himself after his last run. They really were quite gross, he thought. Besides, new shoes would motivate him to get out more often. Probably.

The run was good for settling his body – seven miles was his longer route – but allowed his mind free reign to plan and ponder the upcoming afternoon. _Chips, beer, football, excruciating conversation_ had sounded amusing last night, but now, in the harsh light of this overcast day, Greg wasn’t so sure. Would Mycroft be bored? Disgusted by his choice of beer, chips or…anything else?

Shaking it off as much as possible, Greg opted to stop in at Tesco’s on the way home. As soon as he entered the shop his mind went blank. What was it he’d planned to buy? What would Mycroft like? Should he buy something fancy, or would it look like he was trying too hard? Unable to decide, Greg walked up and down the aisles until he could feel his muscles start to tighten.

“Right,” he muttered to himself. This was ridiculous. Scowling at how much mental energy he was spending on this casual afternoon date, Greg picked up a six pack of his usual beer and assorted (admittedly fancy) nibbles. He hesitated then grabbed a couple of bottles of wine in case Mycroft really had a thing against beer. They could go for a walk to his chippie later, he thought. Assuming Mycroft was still there.

Determined to be more relaxed about things, Greg stowed the beer in the fridge and headed for the shower. He would not obsess over the details of this, he told himself. There were almost four and a half hours until Mycroft was due. He could use the time far more effectively. Starting with a shower and a shave.

+++

Four hours later, Greg dropped onto the couch, rubbing the back of his neck. He frowned, then sniffed at himself.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

As it turned out, the most effective use of his time was an anxious, intensive clean of every possible part of his flat, even the parts Mycroft would certainly never see. He had to admit it was nice to see clear surfaces through the sitting room and kitchen, and know that there were no dirty pants hiding under his bed. No dirty pants anywhere, even the hamper; he’d washed and dried everything he owned, and even taken his suits down to the drycleaner on the corner that accepted drop-offs on a Sunday.

It was unnatural, but with any luck Mycroft wouldn’t be able to find anything to criticise.

Except him, if he didn’t have a shower. Who knew that moving a fridge to clean the floor would be such hard work?

Glancing at his watch again, Greg swore to himself. He’d better get moving if he was to shower again before Mycroft was due.

+++

Fifteen minutes and one very cold shower later, a frantic Greg froze. That was a definite knock on the door. He glanced down at himself, still wrapped in a towel after spending ten precious minutes trying to get his water working again. Not showering wasn’t an option; he’d had to shiver through the shortest possible scrub, endlessly grateful he’d already shaved.

And now Mycroft was early.

A second knock spurred him to action. He grabbed his robe, cursing the man who was usually so punctual. _Five minutes early? He’s either eager or nervous as hell._

A quick rub of the towel over his hair before draping it around his neck. Christ, this was so embarrassing.

“Hi, Mycroft,” he said, opening the door and plastering a smile on his face. He hoped his smile didn’t reflect the mania dancing through his head.

“Greg…” Surprised eyes roved over him. Mycroft’s cheeks coloured, to Greg’s mortification.

“I’m sorry, come in, won’t be a minute,” Greg gabbled, leaving the door open and scurrying back to his bedroom. He swore under his breath, throwing the towel back to the bathroom, then straightening it with shaking fingers.

_Right. Clothes._

Finally, he was dressed. The good thing about the frantic cleaning earlier was that all his clothes were clean and ready to be worn. He smoothed his hands over his favourite shirt and took a deep breath.

 _Mycroft_.

Mycroft was standing in his sitting room, looking as uncomfortable as it was possible to be, Greg thought. He looked great though – dark denim that clung to his long legs was topped off by a soft looking deep blue jumper. Probably cashmere or something. Whatever it was, Greg wanted to bury his nose in it.

 _Concentrate_.

“Sorry,” Greg said, walking into the room where Mycroft would be able to see him. “Worst host ever. I swear I was more prepared than that…”

“It’s not a problem,” Mycroft assured him. Greg watched his eyes flicker around the room, and he had the distinct impression Mycroft knew what state his flat was usually in and was amused by the spotlessness. Well, Greg certainly wasn’t going to be the first to admit to such nerves.

“I can see you managed to find Casual Mycroft,” Greg said, feeling his mouth spread in a smile.

“I did,” Mycroft said, self-consciously running one hand down the front of his jumper. Greg found himself watching the path of that hand, wishing it was his hand skimming over the planes of Mycroft’s body.

“I’m glad,” Greg said, tearing his eyes away. “Not sure this is the kind of place Formal Mycroft would be comfortable.”

“You’ve never met Formal Mycroft,” Mycroft replied, his own expression softening. “Every-day Mycroft wears a three-piece suit as a matter of course.”

“Fair enough,” Greg said, grinning. He was pleased Mycroft was clearly relaxed enough to return his gentle teasing. They smiled at each other for a moment before Mycroft cleared his throat and looked away.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Greg asked. “I know I said beer, but I have tea, coffee, wine…”

“If you’re drinking I would prefer wine to beer,” Mycroft replied. “Otherwise tea will be fine.”

“Beer and wine it is,” Greg said with a grin. There was no way he was going to attempt this afternoon without a beer. God knew he’d already earned his.

It was odd to walk into his kitchen and find it so clean. He dug out one of the wine glasses he’d washed just in case Mycroft wanted wine, pouring the chardonnay carefully before cracking open his beer. He managed to get the food organised without spilling anything, before ducking back into the sitting room with their drinks.

“Cheers,” he offered, passing Mycroft his wine. Mission accomplished with no embarrassing faux pas. _Thank God._

“Cheers,” Mycroft replied, touching his glass to the lip of Greg’s bottle. He glanced at the dark TV screen. “I believe football was on offer today? Or has the agenda changed?”

“I don’t even know if there’s a game on,” Greg admitted. “Assuming you actually wanted to watch the football?”

“That was the agreement, Greg,” Mycroft replied seriously. Greg felt himself scrutinising Mycroft’s face. He was relieved to see a glint of amusement behind those gorgeous eyes. Perhaps he was learning to read Mycroft a little.

The idea sent a warm glow through him.

“Well yes, but…” Greg protested, raising his voice a little as he stepped into the kitchen for the nibbles. “I mean, I want you to have a good time,” he added lamely.

“We’ve bypassed the beer and chips,” Mycroft said, indicating the crackers, dips and cheese Greg had supplied, “if we agree to forego the football, all that’s left is the excruciating conversation.”

“Ah,” Greg said. He was wondering if Mycroft was trying to opt out of the conversation. There was one way to get it find out, he supposed. “Best get started on that, then. Earn the beer and chips.”

Greg felt a little like he was challenging Mycroft, deciding to see how serious he was about this. This… _this_. Whatever this was.

_Christ._

Greg waited, biting his lip as he studied Mycroft. The eyes were shuttered, lids lowered for half a dozen considered breaths. He raised his wineglass, sipping delicately.

Greg found himself mesmerised by the sight, watching as Mycroft savoured the flavour ( _must have made a good choice, thank God_ ). His eyes dropped as the muscles of that long throat worked, swallowing the wine in slow motion. Or was that just him?

Jesus, there was no way he was getting out of this unscathed. He was already ogling the poor man and they’d barely started.

To cover his sudden nerves, Greg sat down, drawing a cracker through the pesto. Mycroft sat beside him on the sofa and Greg settled, tilting his body automatically towards his guest and using the excuse to swallow. He couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about. Was it his turn to say something?

“Certainly,” Mycroft said finally. “Where would you like to begin?”

_Nowhere. Let’s skip straight to the shagging._

It took Greg a second to shake off his immediate response before continuing along a more socially acceptable path.

“Well I suppose I should ask you if you actually wanted our date to end when it did,” Greg asked, shifting uncomfortably.

There was a considered silence.

“No,” Mycroft said slowly.

The tilt of his head was becoming familiar as Mycroft thought about Greg’s question. The seriousness with which Mycroft was considering his question was somehow endearing, as though it was of paramount importance.

Greg took up the knife, concentrating on the soft cheese and giving himself a talking to. _Hold it together_. There was no point making this into more than it was. Absently he placed the cheese between his teeth. As he replaced the knife, Greg’s tongue curled under, drawing the soft morsel into his mouth.

Glancing up, he froze, jaw halfway to chewing. Mycroft was watching him intently. When he clocked Greg looking at him, his face flushed scarlet. That expression – mouth half open, eyes wide, breathing shallow – could mean only one thing.

Mycroft wanted him.

This knowledge would not help his ability to restrain himself from looking or flirting, Greg thought a little desperately. It was a lot easier to convince yourself to go slow if you weren’t sure of where the other guy stood, but with that one look, Mycroft had broadcast his interest as clear as day.

And now he was speaking again. Greg shook himself, concentrating hard on the words.

“With regard to the points you made last night. Taken all together as they were presented, I can understand how you would have come to the opposite conclusion,” Mycroft mused. He’d pulled away from Greg’s gaze at some point, and he did not meet Greg’s eyes as he admitted, “I can’t say I have a lot of experience with the social norms in these situation. I find it difficult to believe, to be honest.”

Greg took a moment to translate.

_I have no idea what I’m doing._

Well, that made sense, when Greg thought about it with the way Mycroft had talked about his previous attempt to meet someone. Right, he’d need to remember that. Go slow, make sure he was clear in his messages. Mycroft has no idea about how to do dating. Greg would help him learn.

“I guess there’s a bit of disbelief in both of us, then,” Greg said. “I couldn’t believe it when you showed up last Wednesday night.”

Mycroft looked at him in the aforementioned disbelief.

“I believe the unreality is mine to claim,” he told Greg. “I have no idea what prompted me to actually make the trip to your office that evening.”

“Too much expensive Scotch?” Greg said cheekily.

“Quite,” Mycroft murmured. Greg was relieved to see his mouth tug up – he was amused by the little jibe. “A disappointing date did nothing to boost my mood either.”

There was a story there, Greg thought. Maybe another time.

“Yeah, I’ve had a few of those,” Greg said.

Mycroft smiled, and Greg’s heart pulsed hard in his chest at the sight.

“Common ground,” Mycroft murmured.

“So how does our date rank, then?” Greg asked. “On the scale.”

Mycroft considered it.

“Today, or Friday night?”

“Today,” Greg replied immediately. “The last one doesn’t count.”

“Given that it’s not over, I don’t know,” Mycroft said. Greg could see him relax a little as they agreed not to analyse their mutual disaster too closely. “There is wine, and you did offer beer, but so far there has been no football, no chips and a serious lack of excruciating conversation.”

“I see your point,” Greg conceded. “We do have the rest of the afternoon, though. Perhaps reserve judgement?”

“That sounds fair,” Mycroft replied.

The moments that followed were quiet, as Mycroft took up a cracker and hummus and Greg continued with the brie. A few quiet moments, comfortable together, and he felt like things might be a little more on track.

 “What’s the worst date you’ve had then?” Greg asked. Mycroft’s look was alarmed, and Greg felt a swoop of panic in his gut. “Christ, I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

“No, no, I have had uncomfortable experiences, and several mortifying moments, but nothing…traumatising,” Mycroft assured him.

Greg’s stomach untwisted. “Good.” He drank, needing the moment to collect himself. “I can go first, if you like. Tell you about a terrible date I had quite recently.”

“Recently?” Mycroft asked. His voice was casual, but Greg could see the interest in his eyes, in the overly-casual assessment of his body language.

“Very recently,” Greg agreed. “Couple of weeks ago, actually.”

He chewed as he studied Mycroft, fascinated to continue watching closely as the man’s mind worked. He liked that he didn’t have to conceal his interest, and from Mycroft’s slightly self-aware shift, he wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. Greg wondered how often anyone really looked at Mycroft.

“At the Silver Stud,” Mycroft breathed. Greg nodded. “You said you were meeting a friend,” Mycroft said.

“I did,” Greg replied. He gave a half shrug. “I did meet Rob. We were pretty close at the Police Academy, but he’s been in Liverpool since then. He set me up with a friend of his.”

“At the Silver Stud,” Mycroft prompted, one delicate eyebrow rising.

“I told you it was Rob’s kind of a place,” Greg agreed.

“And your date?” Mycroft asked.

“Are you familiar with the term ‘twink’?” Greg asked, sighing. This was actually a little embarrassing. Hopefully they could giggle a bit at his expense.

Mycroft frowned. “I don’t believe I am.”

Greg grimaced. “Young, beautiful, innocent looking. Intelligence is…optional.”

“Right,” Mycroft replied cautiously.

“It’s like the gay equivalent to the blonde bimbo stereotype,” Greg added.

“And I assume that’s not something you’re interested in,” Mycroft said guardedly.

Greg realised his amusing story was falling flat. Mycroft wasn’t focussing on the incongruity of Greg being set up with someone as different to himself as a stereotypical twink. Instead he was too worried about what Greg was revealing about his preferences – and what that said for his own chances. He was worried Greg was trying to let him down gently. Greg’s heart squeezed at the idea of Mycroft asking such a careful question, his hopes fading as he braced for Greg’s response.

“Hey,” Greg said, putting his beer down, shifting across the sofa closer to Mycroft. He ducked, catching the anxious grey eyes that had been avoiding him for the past few minutes. They were, as he suspected, full of wounded resignation. God, what did Mycroft think he was going to say?

“Mycroft.” He tried to keep his voice gentle, the tremor barely concealed. _You brave man, how could you think I would invite you here and dump you?_ “This story is about a _bad_ date, remember? Trust me, this guy was not my type. At all.”

The question was unspoken, but Greg could read it as clear as anything in Mycroft’s eyes.

_What is your type?_

For a wordless question, only one response seemed right to Greg. He smiled, putting all the affection and gentle care he could manage into his gaze. With a deep breath he settled one hand on Mycroft’s wine glass, gently removing it and placing it on the table beside his beer bottle.

Mycroft’s eyes never left Greg’s, widening as the gentle touches. His face blossomed into astonishment as Greg leaned closer, fingers resting on Mycroft’s cheek. When Mycroft’s bottom lip dropped, Greg swallowed, brushing his thumb over pale skin, feeling the sharp cheekbone beneath it. When the lip trembled, Greg did not think, but leaned forward, covering it with his own mouth.

Soft, and sweet enough to make Greg groan, as chaste as it was. Just lips pressed together, barely sliding together, but it made Greg’s heart sing.

He could feel Mycroft’s hand covering his fingers, pressing and holding it to his cheek. There were a handful of breaths at the very edge of control before Greg pulled back a little, staying close enough to breathe in Mycroft’s scent.

“Hopefully that answers that,” Greg murmured, feeling Mycroft’s shuddering breath brush across his skin.

“Yes,” Mycroft managed, “thank you.”

“I’m here with you, and not him,” Greg said, aware of how hoarse his voice sounded. He wanted to be clear, though. “I used to have a type, for want of a better word. Not twinks, exactly, but younger than me. Well, I was younger too.” He grinned a bit. “My tastes grew up with me, I think.”

“You were married,” Mycroft reminded him. He’d eased back a little, their hands drifting down from his cheek to rest on his knee instead. The warm weight of his fingers on Greg’s hand was wonderful.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Quite a drought there, boyfriend wise. Had to rethink things when Andrea left me.”

By the time his marriage had fallen apart, he and Andrea had been practically roommates, and not happy ones at that. He’d realised it was far less about the physical by then. He’d craved a connection. Someone to talk to, laugh with, debate points of stupid movies. The few men he’d met for a drink had been set ups from mates he’d known before his marriage.

“I don’t think I have a type now,” Greg said. Absently he curled his thumb around Mycroft’s fingers, stroking the knuckle. “I guess you could say, I know what I like.”

Mycroft blushed at Greg’s pointed look, his fingers flexing reflexively.

“I tend towards men of a particular…nature, rather than physical type. Kindness and a gentle manner are very attractive,” Mycroft admitted, smiling shyly at Greg.

Greg felt his own cheeks warm at the implied compliment. Christ, they were sitting blushing at each other like a pair of awkward teenagers. “I feel like I should thank you,” he said. “Assuming you’re talking about me.”

Mycroft’s expression was disbelieving. “Gregory,” he said with mild reproach. His gaze dropped to Greg’s mouth, and the hitch in his breath was audible in the quiet room. Greg watched the delicate eyebrows come together briefly before Mycroft’s expression cleared. To Greg’s amusement and surprise, Mycroft leaned in, brushing their mouths together. It was gentle and reassuring and filled Greg with warmth.

“Mmmm, nice,” Greg sighed when Mycroft pulled back. Mycroft’s face suffused with pink again, to Greg’s delight. All his worry before Mycroft had arrived and now they were kissing on the sofa, soft and shy. Greg marvelled that Mycroft seemed just as nervous and hesitant as he.

_The man behind the politician. How privileged I am to see him, really see him._

“I never really told you the main part about this date,” Greg said finally, picking up first Mycroft’s glass and handing it over before also collecting his beer. “D’you want me to tell you about it?”

“If you’d like to,” Mycroft replied.

“Okay, I’ll take that as a yes,” Greg said, settling against the sofa, much closer than he had been earlier, still with his hand wrapped around Mycroft’s.

“So Devon was the guy Rob set me up with,” Greg said. “I probably would have gone for him before, when I’d known Rob better,” Greg said reflectively. “But he was,” he struggled for the word before giving up, “extremely self-involved.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened, and Greg was delighted when he giggled in surprise.

“I may have to revise my ‘kind’ appraisal of you, Greg,” he murmured, though there was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke.

“That was kind,” Greg insisted. “You would agree if you’d met him.”

“Hmm…”

“When I met him, he told me I was better looking than he expected for my age.”

Mycroft looked amused so Greg started ticking off the highlights. “He ordered a cocktail, and when I ordered a beer he informed me he didn’t kiss guys who drank beer. Told me he had a thing for silver foxes but he always worried one would ‘clock out’ while they had sex. Explained his body fat percentage and asked what mine was. Told me all about his latest conquests, including a guy he was proud to say had, um…” Greg found himself colouring just remembering the graphic acts Devon had described so casually.

“Modesty, Greg?” Mycroft teased.

Greg bristled at his tone, and sat up, looking Mycroft dead in the eye as he said, “Devon was quite proud he’d been fisted for the first time the previous week. He’d also bottomed for a pair of guys. At the same time.”

“The same time?” Mycroft repeated weakly.

“The same time,” Greg repeated. “As in-”

“Yes, thank you, I understand,” Mycroft interrupted him. He looked so aghast at the idea Greg had to laugh.

“Needless to say, we didn’t hit it off,” Greg added, brushing his fingertips over Mycroft’s hand. “Don’t know what he’d say if I’d wanted actual conversation.”

“What was Rob thinking?” Mycroft asked. “Do you think he really imagined you would be interested?”

“I suspect he thought I might be desperate enough for it,” Greg replied honestly.

“Good grief,” Mycroft murmured. “I assume you let him down gently?”

“I did,” Greg replied. “I was gallant and tactful and all sorts of nice to him.”

“And Rob?” Mycroft asked.

“He was gone by then. I haven’t spoken to him, actually.” Greg wondered briefly how his mate would react. He’d have to remember to call him.

“Anyway,” Greg said, “that’s my most recent bad date. Suffice it to say, this one is already far better.” He smiled at Mycroft, deciding the slightly astonished look of embarrassed pleasure was one of his favourites. He’d have to make sure to put it there as often as possible.


	6. The Duke's Younger Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of unintentional nods here. They appeared on their own, I swear... see if you can pick them (spoilers at the end of this chapter if you want to know).

“I too am having an enjoyable afternoon,” Mycroft said quietly. His hand and Greg’s were still comfortably resting together between them. The ease into this casual intimacy sent butterflies through Greg, and he tried to suppress them.

“Despite the lack of chips and beer?” Greg asked teasingly.

“Well, you do have beer,” Mycroft pointed out. “And the chips are not entirely necessary.”

“Not to you,” Greg replied. “But with football, you kind of have to have chips. It’s practically the law.”

“Alas, we have no football either,” Mycroft pointed out, his eyes twinkling.

As Greg put down his empty beer bottle and reached for the remote, his eyebrows rising in challenge, Mycroft’s hand closed over his, warm and firm. “That was not a request, Gregory.”

Greg grinned at him. “You think we’re doing okay without the football?”

“I believe we are managing, yes,” Mycroft replied. He drained the last of his wine and the glass joined Greg’s empty bottle.

Greg saw him hesitate, hands hovering uncertainly. Not quite as casual as Greg had thought, then.

Quietly he turned his hand over, curling his fingers in, inviting Mycroft back into their soft touches. After a moment the long fingers joined Greg’s, and the rush flowed through him again at the touch.

Greg felt himself melting further into the sofa, sliding down, leaning sideways against the back cushion. Closer to Mycroft as his voice broke through Greg’s fog of contentment.

“Shall I tell you about my experience at the Silver Stud?”

Greg nodded, pulling his attention away from the hand resting in his, heavy and comforting. He had to look up to find Mycroft’s gaze. “Please tell me it was better than mine.”

Mycroft’s head tilted again as he considered it, looking down fondly at Greg.

 _His eyes are hypnotic,_ Greg thought. _I could lose myself for hours…_

“Well, I think that’s open for interpretation,” Mycroft said.

“I’d better hear the details and help you decide, then,” Greg said, smiling.

“Very well,” Mycroft said, shifting his weight.

He lowered his head and Greg felt lips brush his. He pressed up, gently, encouraging Mycroft, accepting the kiss and asking for more. Holding his head at this angle was awkward, but the ache was worth it to have the gentle stroke of Mycroft’s mouth on his.

There was nothing demanding, no hint that Mycroft was warming up to anything more than this. Just this careful touch, learning each other, spending time together. It was lovely, and unhurried and perfect.

It made Greg’s heart expand until he wondered how his chest would contain it.

He and Mycroft had only just started getting to know each other, and there had already been misunderstandings…but they had learned from them, and now Greg was startled to find his anxiety had eased enough for sentiment to begin to blossom.

He could feel the first tendrils beginning to thread through him as Mycroft’s hand gently pressed to his cheek, fingers soft. A whine sounded, low and soft in the air between them, and Greg couldn’t keep the smile from his lips, pulling him away from the kiss.

He was more breathless than he thought he would be.

Mycroft’s eyes, when they opened, were soft and wide, finding on Greg immediately. They smiled at each other, neither speaking as they resettled on the sofa, both leaning sideways, bodies relaxed and pliant.

Even closer than they had been before, Greg thought contentedly. This was by far the best afternoon he’d had in a long time. He and Mycroft were gently finding their rhythm, talking carefully, kissing softly, the honesty sitting a little awkwardly with both of them. Greg was gratified to notice it drawing them together. He hoped.

Mycroft broke the silence a few moments later, his voice quiet. “Do you recall I mentioned a group I had joined in an effort to appease my mother’s concern at my ongoing status as a single man?”

When Greg nodded, he continued. “And I…intimated that my meeting that evening was a group event?”

“Pretty sure you said someone had arranged for a small group to experience their private function room,” Greg corrected him, grinning at the flush now colouring Mycroft’s cheeks. “Was that not entirely accurate?”

“That depends on your definition of ‘small group’,” Mycroft conceded, his thumb rubbing absently over the back of Greg’s hand.

“How many people are we talking?” Greg asked. He did have a sneaking suspicion, and Mycroft’s discomfort was confirming it with every parting moment.

For a considered moment, Mycroft looked at their hands, the contrast between their fingers as they alternated pale skin and olive, slender and stocky. A faint smile ghosted over his face.

“Four,” he admitted eventually. “Two…pairs. For drinks.”

“Mycroft, are you telling me you were on a double date at the Silver Stud?”

Greg fought to keep the amusement out of his voice. It was clear from his face that Mycroft didn’t find it amusing, as much as Greg might disagree. He felt too soft and comfortable to put a real effort into teasing Mycroft, and the last thing he wanted to do was harm this lovely atmosphere they had woven.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied stiffly.

“And it went…” Greg prompted.

“It will make a valiant challenge against yours for ‘worst date at the Silver Stud’ on that particular evening,” Mycroft replied, wincing at the memory.

“Well I’m all ears,” Greg said, watching Mycroft’s face relax as he caught Greg’s steady gaze. “I’m assuming this guy is a member of your group?”

“Douglas Richardson is indeed a member,” Mycroft replied. “He and I are compatible in many respects. It was suggested by Samuel Findlay-Williams that we might…hit it off,” he explained. “Samuel is one of the founding members of our group.”

“Fancies himself a bit of a matchmaker, does he?” Greg asked. He was studying Mycroft’s face, fascinated at the play of expression on the normally impassive face. The flickers were too rapid to know exactly what he was thinking and Greg wondered with a thrill how long it might be before he could read Mycroft accurately.

“He does,” Mycroft said, in a tone of voice that made it clear to Greg he was not of the same opinion.

“Right, so you and Dougie meet for a pint,” Greg summarised, grinning a little. “Bet you didn’t call him Dougie, though.”

“I did not,” Mycroft agreed. “In fact he was quite put out when I used his first name.”

“What? What did he want you to call him?” Greg asked. What alternative could there be to his _name_?

“Lord Douglas,” Mycroft replied, and Greg would swear he rolled his eyes. “He is the younger son of the Duke of Weselton.”

“And he wanted his date to call him Lord Douglas?” Greg asked in amazement. “Well that’s a good start on one-upping my worst date.” He tried to temper the observation by pressing his thumb into Mycroft’s palm, massaging slow circles.

“As it turns out, compatibility is less important than one might think when forming a romantic attachment,” Mycroft said seriously.

“Agreed,” Greg said. He took Mycroft’s hand in both of his now, massaging into his palm with both thumbs. He vaguely remembered someone telling him about the pressure points there but the details escaped him. He found it soothing either way, the repetitive motion; from the look on Mycroft’s face it was mutually beneficial.

“While Douglas might have appeared to be a supremely suitable match, he lacked…” Mycroft trailed off, considering. “Suitable conversational skills.”

“Bit boring, was he, The Lord High Tosser Richardson?” Greg asked.

He was determined to have Mycroft grinning at some ridiculous version of that title before the afternoon was over. Something told him there was at least one lingering doubt plaguing Mycroft: _Was it that unreasonable, really?_ He certainly wouldn’t have considered himself worthy of equality from a potential partner, even one he didn’t even like. Only Mycroft’s exceptionally political mind would have warned him against such a skewed power dynamic.

_Thank God he was so cautious._

“He was,” Mycroft confirmed. Greg was sure his lip twitched, but he did not smile. “Far more interested in my political affiliations and position on Brexit than anything personal.”

Greg frowned. “You talked about politics?”

“He talked _at_ me about politics,” Mycroft corrected him. “A minor distinction, perhaps, but it speaks to his complete lack of interest in my position, except with respect to its alignment – or not – with his own.” He sighed. “As it turned out, His Lordship is interested in having someone listen to him and agree with his odious opinions.”

“So not really your cup of tea, then,” Greg murmured. “A Duke’s younger son.”

A heavy pause.

“I may not have a significant amount of experience with relationships, but I do know the difference between being a partner and a subordinate,” Mycroft replied stiffly.

Greg stilled his thumbs, considering the words and tone. The words were factual, but the tone spoke of a more emotional reaction to that implication.

_He thought I wouldn’t realise he knows the difference._

Fuck. He’d stuffed that up.

_Have to reassure him. Show him I know. Tell him I’m sorry, it was a bad joke._

Greg raised his hands slowly, taking Mycroft’s face in his hands, looking into his eyes, expression serious. He held Mycroft’s gaze for a slow count of ten before kissing the corner of his mouth. He drew back, looking at Mycroft again, studying his eyes, trying a bit of a smile, pouring his apology and affection into it.

Watching Mycroft’s face change, and eventually relax into acceptance, was fascinating and nerve wracking.

 _Don’t send us back there again._ And then, as Mycroft’s tension slowly dissipated… _thank you._

Greg made sure his face showed his relief. “Well for the record, I don’t really know enough about Brexit to make an informed argument,” he said, pulling back and allowing his hands to drop, “and I’m firmly Labour when it comes to politics.” He grinned at Mycroft, now that they’d passed that road bump. “More importantly, I’m not all that interested in your position on either.” Considering, he took a risk, raising his eyebrows theatrically a couple of times. “More interested in your position in other places, to be honest.”

Mycroft’s brilliant crimson flush was gorgeous to behold.

_Christ, that’s gorgeous._

“I assume you did try to make some kind of personal conversation, then?” Greg asked. “How did he go with that, The Grand High Poombah of Wankerton?”

“He was…impatient with my efforts to ask about his interests outside of work. Dismissive of questions about his family.”

“Did he ask you any questions about yourself at all?”

“He did,” Mycroft admitted. “Though his comments were largely limited to derisive observations about our parents’ ability to choose names that would prevent our being bullied at school.”

“He actually said that?” Greg asked. “I mean, I am curious about where your parents got your names, but that’s bloody rude!” he tut-tutted. “And from the inferior younger son of a Duke, too.”

“It is,” Mycroft replied, now visibly fighting the smile threatening to break over his face. “The final straw, however, was his suggestion that I simply allow Sherlock access to whatever drugs he would prefer and permit the inevitable overdose to take its course. He advised me that Sherlock’s continued ‘incidents’ would inevitably tarnish my reputation and political potential.”

Despite the matter-of-fact delivery, there was a deep pool of sadness behind those words. Greg saw the tightening of Mycroft’s jaw, felt the flexion of his fingers as the cruel words hung in the air between them.

With a burst of the intuition that sometimes graced his interviews, Greg knew Mycroft’s darkest moments would have brought him to consider that exact path. He wondered if Douglas, that vile, _vile_ man, even realised how close to the bone his words had cut. Probably not; Mycroft was too good at hiding his emotions. That fact alone – the practice it must have taken to perfect his mask – cracked Greg’s heart afresh.

Much as he wanted to say something, Greg had been rendered speechless by the throwaway callousness of this man’s comments.

“Please,” he managed finally, “tell me you can do something about him.”

“Why Gregory, what are you suggesting?” Mycroft asked. The sadness had been a flash, and now it was tucked away again, the twinkle in Mycroft’s eye showing his determination to skim over the dark waters. “Not something to offend our esteemed peer of the Realm, surely?”

“I was thinking something humiliating, or painful, or both,” Greg said honestly. If Mycroft didn’t want to talk about it now, he’d follow that lead. “Maybe with some kind of rash or unfortunate body odour.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Mycroft replied. “Needless to say, I concluded our drinks as soon as possible. Fortunately he was as disinterested as I in a further date.”

“In the absence of pain and stuff,” Greg said, “please tell me you made it really, really clear you didn’t want to see him again. Just…” he shrugged. “So he knows.”

_So I know._

He couldn’t bear the idea of Mycroft having to deal with that man again.

“I believe he understood,” Mycroft assured him. “Once he had made his suggestion about Sherlock, I was less…guarded about my opinions on long haired cats, men who make little effort to conceal their hair-plugs and those who chose a gluten free diet simply to ensure they can be difficult to serving staff.”

“What?” Greg said blankly.

“I deduced him,” Mycroft said simply.

Greg stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not,” Mycroft said, his voice supremely satisfied. “A wholly satisfying use of my skills.”

“Agreed,” Greg said. “So I don’t have to worry about you being swept off your feet by His Tossing Wankerage.” There was a kernel of truth to this fear that Greg was not entirely comfortable with. He hoped his joking tone would cover the unease twisting through his gut.

_Don’t choose someone like him. Choose me._

Of course, it did not escape Mycroft’s notice. Mycroft’s face was kind, and Greg knew his insecurity was written all over his face. “Of course not, Gregory,” Mycroft said, and the kiss he bestowed on Greg was tender and reassuring.

Greg breathed out, eyes closing as he relaxed.

“Once I left that abhorrent man, the first person I saw outside was you,” Mycroft went on. He looked down, threading his fingers with Greg’s as they spoke. The movement was easy and slow, underlining Mycroft’s words, giving him something to look at, Greg realised. Despite the conversation they’d been having – and the kissing – Mycroft was still uncertain at heart.

“Liked what you saw, then?” Greg tried to inject some humour into what was fast spiralling back to a serious conversation.

“I have done so for a long time,” Mycroft told him, still watching their fingers twist together. “I believe I was thinking of how poorly my date had gone.” His lip twitched but he still did not look at Greg. “With His Grace, the Earl of Wankerage.”

Greg laughed out loud, completely taken by surprise.

_Success._

“When I saw you I realised how I would have liked it to go, and it had nothing to do with the alignment of our views on the political state of our nation. I imagined something far more…relaxed.”

“More relaxed than the Silver Stud?” Greg said with astonishment. “Surely not, Mycroft.”

“More like this,” Mycroft said, determined not to rise to Greg’s bait. “With someone kind. Someone gentle, interested in my wellbeing. A more intimate occasion.”

Greg’s heart flipped at the idea. Mycroft was happier sitting here with him, determinedly not watching the football, than drinking probably very good Scotch with a peer of the bloody Realm.

Incredible.

“It certainly is,” Greg murmured.

They moved together, meeting in the middle for a long slow kiss, taking solace in each other, reassuring with slow caresses and gentle fingers…until a loud growl announced the deplorably empty state of Greg’s stomach.

“It appears the lack of chips has been noted,” Mycroft said gravely. “Do you think we should address the deficit?”

“Sounds good to me,” Greg replied. He hesitated. “Are you…I mean, we don’t actually have to get fish and chips. We could go to a proper restaurant or something.”

“Fish and chips will be fine, Gregory,” Mycroft replied.

They readied themselves to leave, meeting at the door once Greg had relieved himself and grabbed his shoes. It was the first time he’d been allowed to really look at Mycroft – look closely at him. He was taller than Greg by a couple of inches, which was more noticeable now that they were standing so close together. Mycroft’s eyes were far more complex than he’d noticed before – shades of blue and grey rather than one flat colour.

“Was there something, Gregory?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“No,” Greg said. He smiled. “Just noticing your eyes. Can’t really decide what colour they are.”

“Blue-grey is the most popular suggestion,” Mycroft offered.

“Hmmm, I can see that,” Greg murmured, reaching up to kiss the side of Mycroft’s mouth before opening the door for Mycroft.

“So, I do have one question,” Greg asked as they walked to the chippie. “Just because I’m wondering.”

“Yes?” Mycroft replied cautiously.

“I was joking earlier when I said you only came to see me on Wednesday because you’d had too much to drink,” Greg blurted. “Was that true?” He could feel his cheeks warming, a little embarrassed by the question.

“Is it important?” Mycroft asked.

“Well, no,” Greg said. “Or…look, I just was wondering…” he trailed off. It was hard to put it into words.

Mycroft was silent for a moment, then the words came in a rush. “I came to see you that night because the Scotch had finally given me the courage to do what I had wanted to do for a long time.”

Greg nodded slowly.

“I had deduced your interest in men, however I was…hesitant to actually upon it without confirmation,” Mycroft added. “Seeing you outside the Silver Stud seemed like a gift. Of course I then had to act on it. Something that proved much more difficult in practice than I had anticipated.”

He glanced over at Greg. “You may recall how little I actually said.”

“I do,” Greg answered.

“I was nervous,” Mycroft admitted. “And probably drunker than I should have been.”

“Good thing I was just as nervous as you, then,” Greg replied.

Mycroft’s confused look made him shrug. It was Greg’s turn to be self-conscious about what he was about to say. “I wasn’t sure if it was you, that night at the Silver Stud,” he explained. “I wanted it to be, I mean, I had no way of knowing if you were interested in men, and honestly, even if you’d told me yourself I doubt I would have gotten up the courage to actually call.”

Mycroft frowned again. “Why was it important for you to know my precise motivation that evening?”

Greg stopped them just short of the shop. “I wanted to know…that you wanted to do this. That the Scotch was helping you do something you wanted to do, not that it was making you, I dunno, a sad drunk, or a lonely drunk, and you went off to find the first person you could think of that might say yes.”

“You were the first person I thought of. The only person I had been thinking of since I saw you there.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet but honest.

Greg couldn’t hold in the grin.

_Brilliant._

Later, after fish and chips eaten on Greg’s sofa – and not a little snogging, if he was to be honest – Greg hummed in delight as Mycroft kissed him goodbye.

It wasn’t especially late, but Mycroft was to be up hours before dawn, so Greg was kicking him out. He had to be at work tomorrow, too, so it wasn’t entirely selfless. Wasn’t selfless at all, really – Mycroft would have stayed if he’d asked, he knew it, and his insides ached to ask.

It was too soon. And it was a Sunday night, and they both had to work in the morning. There was no worse way to begin that a quick shag and out the door, as tempting as that might sound, he wanted to take his time, to show Mycroft he’d made the right decision by drinking a little too much that night and letting the Scotch lead him to Scotland Yard.

Greg doubted that he would have the strength to be the one to say ‘wait’ if Mycroft was willing and soft, lying in his bed…

No.

Another time. They would text tomorrow and Tuesday, and then Mycroft would be out of the country for a couple of days. They had a tentative date booked for the coming weekend, but Greg wasn’t sure offhand if he was on call.

He hoped he wasn’t. He hoped Mycroft came back safely, and he sincerely hoped that the Koreas and Russia and the US or whoever Mycroft was dealing with at the moment could keep their hands to themselves for the week. He’d hate to have the evening off only for Mycroft to be doing something tiresome like preventing a war.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Douglas Richardson is a pilot in 'Cabin Pressure', a BBC Radio production featuring Roger Allam and Benedict Cumberbatch.  
> The Duke of Weselton appears in Frozen - and he's a tosser in that, just like his son is here. ;)


	7. The Silver Stud

Friday night couldn’t come fast enough. Greg kept his fingers crossed all day for a quiet one, and he must have done something right because at half five on the dot he walked out, waving at Sally as he headed for the stairs. A whole weekend to himself, barring catastrophic emergency. And even then…

“Wow,” Greg breathed when Mycroft came to pick him up. He immediately felt overdressed. “Should I change?”

“I insist that you don’t,” said Mycroft. “It’s the best worst date shirt I’ve ever seen.” He ran a hand over his own tight black shirt, visible under his fitted jacket. The shirt was striped, but subtly, in satin finish black that only showed under the lights. This was definitely Casual Mycroft, Greg thought to himself as his heart thudded extra hard twice, just in case he thought he might pass out.

Greg grinned at Mycroft. Their text messages had been light and flirty through the week, leading to a plan for tonight: an endeavour to have the best worst date ever. They’d agreed there was only one place they could go – the Silver Stud, with its sticky tables and expensive beer.

As Greg recalled their weeks’ correspondence, Mycroft stepped across the threshold and into Greg’s personal space. The invasion was sudden, and overwhelming, and as welcome as any Greg could remember. Immediately he swung the door closed, crowding Mycroft backwards until his dark jacket pressed against the wood. Greg breathed him in, hoping it wasn’t too weird that he was just standing there, resting his palms on Mycroft’s chest, breathing in his scent.

“Can I assume you are as pleased to see me as I am you?” Mycroft murmured, and Greg was happy to hear amusement in his voice.

“If you are extremely pleased, then yes,” Greg replied, turning his face into Mycroft’s neck. He kissed just above the point of that crisp white collar. Mycroft turned his head up a little, affording Greg more room, and he took the permission and ran with it, nosing harder against the gorgeous pale skin. Pressing his hands against Mycroft, holding him against the door this time, resting his body along the lines of Mycroft’s body.

The harsh breathing could have been either of them, and Greg didn’t care which, but his own name, gasped to the quiet hallway when he sucked lightly under Mycroft’s jaw, was definitely from Mycroft.

“Wait,” Mycroft managed, and Greg stilled immediately. He pulled away a little, looking at Mycroft, heart pounding, breathing coming fast. Mycroft’s eyes were closed, and as Greg looked at him, long fingers came shakily up to cup his face.

“I want to kiss you,” Mycroft whispered, tilting his head down without opening his eyes. Greg was quite happy to acquiesce. Mycroft’s neck would wait, and kissing him was hardly a terrible alternative.

The rushed breathing slowed as Mycroft set a far more considered pace. He stroked Greg’s mouth with his own, relearning the shape and rhythm they’d begun to develop last week, coaxing them into a measured discovery.

It was finding a way back, Greg realised, to what they had on Sunday. Slow and careful. More personal and less…frantic. He’d forgotten how nice it was just to kiss as they had, with no further goal. Mycroft had been more cautious than he on Sunday, more tentative. It felt like being cared for. It was lovely, and Greg savoured it.

Finally, then parted.

“I like your shirt,” Greg said, chuckling at his own asinine comment. No way he’d convince anyone they hadn’t had a pre-departure shag with that kind of voice, he thought. Oops.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. “You look…remarkable, Gregory.”

“Sure I shouldn’t change?” Greg said. “I did, well…ridiculous as I look now, I promise I’ll fit in at the club.”

“I know,” Mycroft replied. Greg felt his eyes rove down the black shirt. It was far slimmer cut than his usual choices, and the white circles at shoulders and cuffs looked a little silly here in his flat. For the Silver Stud, though, he’d be positively chaste in comparison to some of the other men.

“I’ll have my jacket ‘til then, too,” Greg added. He slipped on his leather jacket and looked to Mycroft for confirmation.

“You look magnificent,” Mycroft said. His voice was deep, far deeper than usual; Greg’s eyebrows rose in astonishment.

“The jacket?” he clarified. _Interesting_.

“Oh yes,” Mycroft practically purred. Greg smiled as he kissed Mycroft, slipping a hand to the back of Mycroft’s neck to pull him in for a beat before stepping back.

“Right,” Greg said. “Shall we begin the best worst date ever?”

“After you, Lord Lestrade,” Mycroft said and Greg chuckled in response.

“Finally, someone giving me the respect I deserve,” he said.

When they arrived at the Silver Stud, Mycroft sat in the car looking out of the window for a few seconds. “I can’t believe we are doing this,” he muttered good naturedly.

“Where else would we go?” Greg asked, grinning as he surveyed the carpark. “We agreed to try and have the worst date ever, it seems logical to start here.”

“Start here?” Mycroft echoed, looking startled.

“Well, yeah,” Greg replied. “Who knows where the evening will take us?”

Mycroft still looked suspicious as Greg pulled him out of the car. “Hopefully not to a kebab stand,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg’s face opened into a huge grin. He was still grinning as they walked across the carpark. Part of it was Mycroft’s comment, but they were also holding hands, and the gentle contact made him happy, too. The bouncer let them in without a second glance – they were hardly young enough to card, and it was early by nightclub standards.

“Which room do you want to start in?” Greg asked, raising his voice over the already too-loud music. He felt old, coming into places like this. Old and grumpy, given his propensity to seeing crime everywhere. Mainly underage drinking and a bit of soliciting, but the habits were ingrained and it could be difficult to ignore.

“There are rooms?” Mycroft replied. He looked a little bewildered, and Greg realised Mycroft didn’t have a standard set of early twenties experiences on which to fall back.

“Yeah, depends on the kind of music you want to listen to. And there’s upstairs too, for less…public spaces.”

Mycroft’s confused look made Greg turn to him and say seriously, “If anyone asks you do not want to go upstairs with them. Upstairs is more about the bodies, less about the music,” Greg told him, hoping his delicate explanation would suffice. Judging by the sudden understanding – and horror – on Mycroft’s face, it did.

“Downstairs, let’s go to the main bar first. If we don’t like the music we can move,” Greg suggested.

Mycroft nodded, and they made their way into a large open room. A semi-circular bar took up one side of the room, with a dancefloor on the other and plenty of conveniently darkened corners designated by sunken floors and leather furniture. Greg wasn’t sure if Mycroft shuddered or if it was the pounding bass.

“Drink?” Greg asked, and Mycroft nodded again.

It was far less of a fight to get there than last time Greg had been here; they had their drinks in hand almost immediately and decided to stand at the bar. Mycroft was watching the room, back ramrod straight as he avoided leaning against the bar, and Greg wondered if he consciously turned off the deductions that seemed to flow from Sherlock without a filter. Was it the same for Mycroft, or had his measure of self-control extended to turning off the skill at will?

“So far?” Greg asked when their drinks were half gone.

Mycroft’s face was expressive and it told Greg exactly how much he was hating the experience.

“Sticky floor, sticky seats, sticky bar, cheap wine,” Mycroft said, bending his head to be heard by Greg but not the bartender.

“True,” Greg replied.

“I suppose it would be too much to ask for patrons to keep their beer in the containers in which it was supplied,” Mycroft muttered, perching himself gingerly on the very edge of the seat behind him.

Greg waited until he was settled before leaning over with a smirk. “You know that not all sticky seats in a place like this are from spilled beer, right?”

Mycroft frowned, watching Greg’s expression. He did his best leer, raising his eyebrows and looking as filthy as possible before Mycroft’s eyes widened in understanding and revulsion.

“Gregory!”

“Yes, Mycroft?”

“Are you implying that some of the…uncleanliness of these surfaces is due to…”

“Body fluids? Yes I am actually.”

“That is revolting.”

“Yep,” Greg agreed, leaning nonchalantly against the bar. “And that’s why I don’t really come to these places anymore. And why I don’t sit down if I can help it.”

Mycroft shot him a scowl. “Thank you so much for withholding this detail until I was seated.”

“No problem. Just trying to add to the authentic ‘bad date’ experience. Where do you think we are now? Climbing up the rankings?”

Greg hoped his broad grin was enough to offset the irritation Mycroft was clearly feeling.

“Skyrocketing,” Mycroft replied, though he did sneak a small grin to Greg at the end.

_Not an actual disaster, then._

“Would you like to dance?” Greg offered. Mycroft’s horrified expression was as clear an answer as any. “That’d be a no, I’m guessing.”

“That is not dancing, Gregory.”

“Twitching?” Greg tried. When Mycroft shot him an exasperated look, he expanded on the theme. “Convulsing? Seizing? Bouncing?”

“However you would like to describe it, I will regretfully decline,” Mycroft said.

“Regretfully?” Greg repeated. “Come on, no regrets, Mycroft!”

“Unregretfully, then,” Mycroft shot back.

“A truly terrible date would insist on you dancing, then step on your toes,” Greg pointed out. He pouted, a completely silly face that made Mycroft smile. “How am I supposed to make this the worst date ever if you won’t let me step on your toes?”

“Au contraire,” Mycroft countered. “It was made clear that this was to be a bad date for both of us. Surely a date that refuses to dance would rate highly for someone who did wish to dance? I am merely aiding you in your goal to have a bad experience, too.”

Greg chuckled at Mycroft’s clever verbal sidestep. Oh, this was fun.

“Okay then,” he said. “Point to you. Bad date moment for me.”

They grinned at each other. “What else do we need to happen?” Greg asked. “For this to climb the bad date rankings, I mean.”

“I have no idea,” Mycroft replied. “I could point out the crimes currently in progress if you’d like.” He scanned the room. “Right now I can see at least four underage patrons, two others from whom I would be able to buy drugs right now, and at least two prostitutes looking to find a client.”

“Mycroft,” Greg groaned. “Don’t tell me that stuff, I don’t want to know. Not while I’m off duty.”

Mycroft’s eyes continued to scan the room. Suddenly, he stiffened. “Come with me,” he said, then strode off to the other side of the bar.

Greg followed, startled.

“Excuse me,” Mycroft said, approaching a couple sat on the far side of the bar. The tanned brunet was irritated at the interruption. Greg’s hackles rose as the young man sneered at Mycroft.

“Shove off,” the guy said rudely before turning back to his date. “Thomas and I are trying to have a quiet drink.”

Thomas, a tall man with curly blond hair and sky blue eyes, picked up his drink, eyes flicking uncertainly between the two men.

“I wouldn’t drink from that if I were you,” Mycroft advised him. Greg picked up immediately on Mycroft’s implication and his body weight shifted automatically, blocking the brunet’s way.

“What? Why?” Thomas looked confused.

“I just saw your charming companion here slip a powder in it while you were watching him point to the other side of the room.”

The brunet rolled his eyes, but Greg had seen that kind of bravado before. “Bullshit, city-boy.”

“I assure you, it’s not.” Mycroft sounded so self-assured Greg was almost distracted enough to ignore the slim body trying to ease past him.

"Easy there,” Greg said, throwing out an arm. “How about this, then.” He picked up the contentious glass and offered it to the scowling brunet. “If it’s clean, you drink it.”

Thomas’ wide blue eyes were watching things, and Greg felt sorry for him when his potential drinking partner – and also it seemed, assailant – swore, knocked the drink from Greg’s hand, and bolted.

With a shirt drenched in cocktail, Greg still managed to stop the kid from running. He really was still a kid, Greg thought absently, despite the expletives and ridiculously tight shirt.

“Unless you want to add resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer to your night’s efforts, I’d stop struggling,” Greg said in his ear.

“This is bullshit, I didn’t do anything,” he protested, though the attempts at escape did slow considerably.

Mycroft, meanwhile, had sighed and sent a number of text messages. “I assure you your actions were caught on CCTV. This is what is going to happen,” he pulled out a wallet and opened it, extracting a drivers’ licence, “Andrew James Masterson.”

The kid sputtered as he saw his wallet in Mycroft’s hand, but Greg just grinned. No way he’d be bailing Mycroft up for pickpocketing this slimeball.

“An associate of mine will pick you up from here in three minutes,” Mycroft continued as though Andrew was not glaring daggers at him. “You will make a full admission of your actions here on tape to be transcribed and signed. You will be monitored for a period of time, in which you are not to enter any public bar for any reason. If you do,” Mycroft’s smile was thin and insincere, “there will be consequences.”

“You can’t do this!” Andrew yelled. He turned to Greg. “He can’t do this!”

“Do what?” Greg asked. “I didn’t hear anything. Music in here’s bloody loud.”

Andrew continued to rant for the remaining two and a half minutes, until one of Mycroft’s bodyguards appeared. He was twice as wide as Andrew and at least a foot taller; the kid made the first good decision of his night and went quietly, and Greg at last had a moment to talk to Thomas.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Um, yeah, I think so,” the kid answered. He looked shaken but okay.

“What’s your surname? You’re not in trouble or anything. I’m Greg,” Greg told him.

“Oman,” he said. “Thomas Oman, but I go by Thom. Not that he asked,” Thom said, indicating where Andrew had been escorted out.

“First rule in a place like this, mate, keep an eye on your drink. Bottles are easier, the tops smaller and it’s more natural to keep a hold of it,” Greg offered.

Thom nodded. “I will be now, I swear. Thanks.”

“No worries,” Greg said, only just stopping himself from calling him ‘kid’ out loud.

He and Mycroft walked back to their spot on the bar.

“Bloody hell,” Greg muttered, ordering another drink for each of them. When they came he offered a toast. “To being old enough to know the game.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed. “I apologise for dragging you over there without warning, but I did not want that young man to suffer needlessly.”

“It’s fine,” Greg said, then a thought occurred to him. “No hang on, it’s terrible. You’ve definitely ruined this date.” The words were harsh but he could barely hold in the laughter as he said them.

“I didn’t even make you arrest him,” Mycroft protested mildly. “Surely it would have been worse if I’d left him to you?” He grinned wickedly. “Imagine the paperwork.”

Just as Greg was considering his reply, someone bumped his elbow, sloshing his beer. He managed to avoid dripping it on his shoes, just. Holding back an oath, he turned to see who it was – and froze.

“Greg!”

The figures were familiar, and Greg once again had to make an effort not to swear aloud. Of all the people…

“Hi, Rob,” Greg said, clenching his teeth. “And Devon, hi.”

On the bright side, he thought, as he introduced Mycroft to the other men, this could well push the date over into the worst ever. Devon’s eyes were certainly roving over Mycroft with interest, Greg noticed. The jealousy was barely even a surprise as it spiked through him. _My Mycroft._

“Oh, so you’re the reason Greg’s not going to call me,” Devon said, putting on a pout.

“I believe so, yes,” Mycroft replied. His tone was cool but polite. Greg knew he was the only one who picked up on the implied ‘I am not impressed’. He cringed – if Devon continued with the same kind of comments as he’d started with, it was just possible things might get ugly.

“So how did you meet Greg?” Rob asked Mycroft. Greg had been relieved to see Rob elbow Devon at his tactless comment. Maybe that means he realises I’m more into Mycroft, Greg thought hopefully. Might even rein Devon in a little.

“We have a mutual interest,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “Greg does some work with my brother.”

“I bet he does,” Devon said, winking at Greg and leering. “All in the family, right? If you ever need a third, Mike, or a fourth…”

“How kind,” Mycroft bit out as Greg glared at Rob, who shrugged.

Mycroft drank deeply. Greg couldn’t blame him.

“Oooh, your hands are so soft,” Devon exclaimed as Mycroft lowered his glass, “I can never get mine like that, too many hours washing dishes in my youth. What kind of skin conditioning regimen do you follow? I’ve tried Vivienne Lacroix of course but it’s not vegan and obviously that’s really important to me.”

“A lack of manual labour will suffice, I find,” Mycroft said flatly. “My job largely involves sitting at a desk.”

Devon snorted. “Not for much longer, I’d bet. Not with Greg here keeping you busy. I can spot a fellow bottom a mile away. Bet that chair’s not so comfortable next week, Mike.” He sniggered. “Assuming Greg doesn’t clock out halfway through. His body fat percentage’s much higher than yours and mine…” he cast an appreciative glance down Mycroft’s slender frame.

Rob rolled his eyes, but Greg was having none of it.

“Right, we’re done,” Greg muttered to Rob. As he grabbed Mycroft’s hand and turned to rip through Devon, Mycroft had beaten him to it. He’d stepped in close, speaking quietly, and Greg had the interesting experience of watching the colour drain from Devon’s face until he looked like he might pass out.

“Goodbye, Rob,” Mycroft said stiffly. “Please be aware in future that Gregory is no longer single and would prefer to meet you in a venue without body fluids on the upholstery.”

Greg’s mouth was still hanging open as he stumbled out after Mycroft. His brain was scrambled, which may have been a direct result of what Mycroft had done, or because that same action had sent a large proportion of his blood straight to his groin. Just thinking about it made him throb.

It had been hot as fuck.

When cold night air hit their faces, Mycroft slowed, but Greg did not. He tugged on Mycroft’s hand, pulling him around the corner into the alley. It was too early for it to be full of grinding couples, but Greg did a cursory glance anyway.

Deserted.

Perfect.

Without ceremony he pushed Mycroft against the wall and kissed him, hard. The gasp was swallowed up, Greg’s mouth allowing no discussion as he sated his immediate need to be close to Mycroft. After a moment he realised he probably should check that this was okay, and backed right off, gentling his kisses and releasing Mycroft’s hand, which had ended up pressed against the wall, too.

To his relief, Mycroft buried his hand in Greg’s hair, pulling him back in, pressing his tongue between Greg’s lips.

Greg groaned, a deliberate attempt to relieve some of the pressure now coursing through his body, hot and insistent. He needed to be close, to be tasting Mycroft, but at the same time he wanted Mycroft to know, to understand what it was he had done to elicit this response.

It had been Mycroft, had been his subtle show of power, the self-control that had just snapped. Instead of lashing out, though, he’d collected himself and used words, no doubt carefully crafted ones, to reduce the cocky, brash young man to someone you were worried was going to vomit on your shoes.

It was intoxicating.

“Mycroft,” Greg moaned, kissing down Mycroft’s neck, pressing their bodies together. “That was…fuck that was hot. The way you just-oh, the way you…what did you say to him? Amazing. Turned me on so much…fuck…”

He had no idea really what he was saying. Greg just hoped that Mycroft somehow worked out what it was he was trying to say.

“Greg-Gregory…oh…I can’t…what do you mean…I ju-oh! Just…oh…”

With a groan, Greg pulled away, pressing his forehead into Mycroft’s, breathing hard, listening to Mycroft’s gasps. “What the fuck did you say to him?” Greg asked.

“Devon?” Mycroft asked. When Greg nodded, Mycroft replied, “I deduced him and made suggestions about how he should speak to people in the future.”

Greg groaned. “I’m going to need specifics of that eventually.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. “Right now?”

“Christ, no,” Greg replied. “Right now we need to go home. To my home, or yours. Somewhere with a bed.” He looked at Mycroft as he spoke, the question in his eyes to go along with his words. He could feel the blood pounding, and a small part of his brain noted that earlier he and Mycroft had been careful and exploratory; this was blowing up the slow and steady they’d been building. He should wait, check if Mycroft…

“Yes,” Mycroft said, his voice hoarse. “I want…to be close to you, Greg.”

Greg grinned. “Perfect.”


	8. Best Worst Date Ever

The black car arrived within moments. Greg found it difficult to keep his hands to himself as they stood in the cold, achingly aware of Mycroft, wondering if the same thoughts were racing thought his head. Decidedly unsexy thoughts, designed to help him reign in the intense desire to touch Mycroft in a highly inappropriate manner for the side of the road. Even outside the Silver Stud.

Mycroft gave the driver an address, his tone clipped; he hadn’t so much as looked at Greg since they had parted in the alleyway. Greg was taking it as a good sign.

As they drove, he found himself tapping restless fingers on his knee, barely stopping his leg jiggling. He wasn’t nervous, exactly, but the anticipation was…uncomfortable. Now that he knew they were both in for this Greg just wanted to be there, kissing skin, allowing his hands to wander and encouraging Mycroft’s to do the same…

No. Don’t think about that.

Christ, but Mycroft had been sexy as hell in the bar. Greg could feel a smirk slide across his face as he remembered Devon’s expression change. His jealousy at Mycroft whispering in the young man’s ear had been immediately quashed by the abject horror on his face.

“What did you say to him, anyway?” Greg asked Mycroft. He flicked his eyes forward – the privacy screen was up – and risked a look across at Mycroft.

He was sneaking a glance at Greg at the time. Greg wondered how many of those little looks he’d missed. Probably a lot, given the attention he’d been paying to Theresa May’s possible choice of underpants.

“To whom?” Mycroft asked.

Greg didn’t bother answering – his raised eyebrow said everything he needed it to. To his surprise, a smile tugged Mycroft’s mouth as he prepared to speak.

“I told him he should listen to his doctor and accept treated for the gallstones that have been troubling him, and that if he stopped drinking so heavily and actually ate something solid, it was possible he would meet someone that would actually like him. His low self-esteem would only be boosted for as long as his looks lasted and now that he was mid-twenties he really was stretching the term ‘twink’ to its limits. And I warned him that one day he would offend the wrong person who would probably break his nose, accelerating the aforementioned process.”

Greg’s jaw dropped for a second as he processed the words before a rush of arousal hit him like a physical blow.

“Fuck.” He knew how he must look, and watching Mycroft notice it and respond only made his blood surge harder. He shifted, the bulge in his trousers beyond uncomfortable and growing more insistent as Mycroft cleared his throat. Licked his lips. Shifted his own hips, drawing Greg’s eyes lower to the definite distortion in the line of his trousers…

“We’ve arrived,” Mycroft said, opening the door and immediately stepping out. Greg followed him, scrambling awkwardly across the seat, slamming the door behind him, not caring a whit for the driver. He only had eyes for Mycroft. The man himself was waiting at the front door; his eyes widened as Greg stepped close, mindful of their public location but needing to send a clear message.

“Once you invite me in,” Greg said, hearing the low growl of his voice fill the space between them, “I intend to show you what you do to me, Mycroft.”

He heard the gulp as Mycroft swallowed. Good.

“One word and I will stop,” Greg said clearly. “But for the record, the sounds you were making in that alleyway were…” he groaned, holding back the roll of his hips he so desperately needed.  “I want you,” he said hoarsely. “I want whatever you want to give.” He shifted closer, barely allowing his jacket to brush against Mycroft’s coat. “However you want to give it.”

From the look in Mycroft’s eyes, he was as interested in exploring those ideas as Greg was.

“If you don’t step away from me,” Mycroft said, his voice strangled, “there’s a good chance we won’t get as far as my flat.”

Greg froze, easing himself back when his brain came back online. Definitely on the same page, then.

He stood, hands clenched in his pockets as Mycroft found keys, letting them in the exterior door, across a silent foyer and into a private lift. The passcode entered, doors closed…and Mycroft hit the emergency stop.

Greg’s breath caught in his throat and he looked across the small space.

Without moving, Mycroft turned his head, pinning him with his gaze. From the half wrecked man, close to coming untouched on a quiet street, something changed. He stood straighter, did something with his eyes, the angle of his head.

Suddenly, he radiated power. His face was a mask, unimpressed and giving the distinct impression he would not be asking should he place a request. Greg’s mouth went dry at Mycroft looked at him, unblinking and slowly raised one eyebrow.

Greg was hard as iron in his trousers but did not dare shift under that imperious gaze. He held still, frozen as Mycroft’s eyes travelled lower, inspecting the bulge pressing his trousers out. It felt like a caress. Greg wondered if the twitching he could feel was visible.

“Interesting,” Mycroft murmured, pressing the code to resume their journey. His posture shifted and Greg watched the power slip from him, the eyes flicker left, checking for a reaction.

“Oooh, you’ll keep,” Greg muttered, grinning to himself and Mycroft obviously heard him. A simple power play, but it served its true purpose – demonstrating that Mycroft was as prepared to play as Greg was.

This would be fun.

As soon as the lift door opened and Greg stepped into the private foyer, he turned to Mycroft, looking directly into his eyes. “I will suck you off right here if you want,” he said, deliberately keeping his voice as calm as possible.

Mycroft’s eyes, distracted by something further along the hall, came back to Greg.

“As tempting as that sounds,” came a voice from behind Greg, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat for a week just thinking about it.”

_Fuck._

“Sherlock,” Greg said flatly without looking. His trousers were immediately more comfortable just thinking about him. “I’d ask how the fuck you got in here but I don’t even want to know.”

“I came up in the lift, of course,” Sherlock said, with the gall to sound offended at Greg’s suggestion. He strolled into view, running his eyes up and down Greg before turning his attention to his brother. “I would say I’m surprised you didn’t notice but with such an offer of sexual favours and the pheromones in the air I’m more surprised you remembered how to get home at all.”

Mycroft closed his eyes as twin spots of colour appeared on his cheeks.

“Did you want something?” he asked his brother.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Sherlock replied. “It seems you have more pressing matters.”

He made to sweep dramatically into the lift, but Greg kept his finger on the call button. “Come back before dawn,” he said in a deceptively pleasant voice, “or interrupt this flat in any way – including something you’ve already done that we don’t know about yet – and I’ll have your place raided every week for a year.” He raised both eyebrows at Sherlock. “By Anderson.” A fake smile. “Are we clear?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As crystal, Geoffrey.”

Greg kept his finger on the button for a second longer before allowing the doors to close. “Christ, he brings out the alpha male in me sometimes,” he grumbled. Glancing at Mycroft, he added, “And not in a good way.”

Mycroft groaned, as Greg thought he might. “Please do not ever bring up my brother in any sexual context ever again. Please,” he begged, one hand still covering his eyes.

“I’m taking his exit without ducking back inside as a good sign,” Greg said, helping Mycroft take off his coat. “It means he hasn’t pulled any stupid pranks. And we have hours until dawn, guaranteed interruption free.”

Mycroft stared at him. He took a deep breath. “I believe this might complete our evening’s goal,” he said. “Worst date ever: someone’s brother completely destroys the mood.”

His eyes were a little worried, Greg noticed, and he understood what Mycroft was trying to tell him without actually having to form the words.

“I have to agree,” he said, wrapping his arms around Mycroft. “Nothing worse than a date with no sex at the end.” He grinned up, dropping a kiss on the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “But falling asleep together is pretty good, if you want. I mean, it might stop this being the absolute worst date, but I could live with it if you could.”

He felt Mycroft relax in his arms. “I would be willing to concede the matter.”

Greg hugged him tighter for a minute, feeling the evening – and the drinks – catching up with him. Christ, he wasn’t 23 anymore, was he? “I can feel myself flagging,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into Mycroft’s hair. “Which way’s the bathroom?”

He and Mycroft traded off in the bathroom. The borrowed pyjama trousers and new toothbrush were both far nicer than anything in his flat. He was smiling as he followed the warm light out of the bathroom into Mycroft’s bedroom.

“I am not as young as I was,” Greg said, smiling. “If it was work I’d have drunk a dozen coffees at this point.”

“Coffee is useful,” Mycroft agreed, standing from the edge of the bed where he’d been waiting for Greg.

Greg took a moment to look at him, smiling at the man who could make pyjamas seem formal – collar sitting perfectly, not a wrinkle in sight. He bundled the man up in anther hug before he could get soppy about it, holding him tight for a long moment before releasing him.

“I’m going to guess that we’re both ‘same side as the door’ sleepers,” Greg said, walking to the far side of the bed. “I guess I’ll have to trust you with my safety, then.”

Mycroft smiled as he pulled back the sheets. “Do not trust me, trust the dedicated security network. Few would have the skill to bypass it.”

“Except your brother.” The words were out before Greg could think, and he winced as he heard them. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant to be a dig. Or a mention of your…him.”

Mycroft shook his head. “That person,” he said pointedly, “has the codes to access my flat, of course. He rarely uses them, but I could not refuse him help if he needed it. Ever.” Despite the light tone of voice, Greg could hear the serious message behind Mycroft’s words.

“Of course you couldn’t. Hence my immediate apology for the foot-in-mouth moment.” Greg wiggled closer. “How do you usually sleep?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said. He frowned. “I’m usually asleep.”

The simple truth of the statement was enough to send Greg into gales of laughter. Mycroft looked puzzled, then joined him.

“Of course you don’t,” Greg managed. “Look, let’s just…” he arranged them how he was comfortable, spooning Mycroft, knees tucked in behind. “If this isn’t comfortable, or we move in our sleep, it’s fine.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. Greg could feel the tension as Mycroft’s body took stock of the unfamiliar position. As they breathed together, his muscles slowly relaxed, melting into Greg.

It was an excellent night to what had ended up being one of the best dates Greg could remember.

“I think our worst date was a failure,” he whispered.

“How so?” Mycroft asked.

“It wasn’t a bad date,” Greg told him. “Pretty good, actually.”

“Even with the venue?” Mycroft asked.

“Even with all the bad date moments,” Greg replied. He pressed his mouth to the shoulder before him. “You were there, and you’re still here. A good date.” He smiled. "Best worst date ever."

Mycroft hummed. The sound was quiet and contented. Not quite the sound Greg had been hoping for when they stepped into the car, but somehow it was enough. They had the whole weekend, after all.


	9. Catastrophic Emergency

Greg had forgotten to plug his phone in, but the alert still woke him from the bathroom; he winced at the quarter battery remaining through grainy eyes. Surely he should still be snuggled against Mycroft? His body, cold in the early morning air, protested the idea that he was not. Mycroft was warm; his bathroom was not. Once again, the copper’s body had responded to a wake-up call without his brain’s permission.

 

_Need you in here, boss. Reply or I’ll call you. – Sally_

 

Greg swore as he typed, blinking against the harsh blue light.

 

_I’m awake. Send details._

 

The air and tiles were cold on his skin as he watched the little dots bounce. When the message finally appeared, Greg stared. This was his ‘catastrophic emergency?’

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, tugging off Mycroft’s pyjamas, hoping to get changed without waking his host. Fuck, he’d have to wear the clothes he’d worn to the club. No chance of taking off his leather jacket, then – there was no way he was letting Sally see his ridiculous shirt. Or Sherlock, for that matter.

Greg managed to get changed in silence and was just patting himself on the back when he realised the lift would not move without a code. A code he did not have.

“Fuck,” he whispered, more vehemently this time. There was no way he could avoid waking Mycroft, which meant there was no way he could avoid explaining the situation to Mycroft.

“That doesn’t sound good.” Mycroft’s voice came from the bedroom door, still slow with sleep.

“It’s not,” Greg said flatly. Mycroft blinked at him for two seconds before turning, saying over his shoulder, “Please explain while I dress.”

It was easier said than done in the end, despite Mycroft stepping into his dressing room while Greg sat on the end of the bed. Mental images of Mycroft changing were distracting, especially when he knew it was really happening in the next room.

With difficulty, Greg dragged himself back to the problem at hand. “It’s your brother. He’s alright, just a little bit under arrest right now.”

“A little bit?” Mycroft’s voice was muffled, but the ‘please explain’ was clear enough.

“Yeah, okay,” Greg sighed. Mycroft was not going to like this. Best to keep it short. “He solved a cold case, broke into a garage to confirm his idea. Resident heard him, tied him up, called 999. Lucky for Sherlock, Sally heard him ranting from the cells and called me.” He sighed. “I think she owed the duty sergeant a favour.”

Mycroft emerged from his dressing room dressed and ready to go. “I’m sure Sherlock was not impressed at his arrest.”

Greg checked his watch. “Christ, that took you four minutes.” He stood, grinning at the sight of Mycroft’s bed hair on top of the impeccable clothing. “I think your brother could wait a bit while you fix your hair, love.”

The endearment fell from his lips without thinking, borne on his affection for the man before him – and his hair. Greg watched Mycroft’s face run through a number of expressions – shock, disbelief, understanding – before appearing to accept it.

“I will take a few moments.” He stepped into the bathroom, Greg following enough to lean against the doorframe behind him.

“So you’re planning to come with me, then?”

Mycroft looked at him in the reflection of the mirror. “Of course.” He took out a comb and a squat tub of product. With a self-conscious glance at Greg he raised his hands. “Why?”

Greg shrugged, not wanting to push this conversation, but he could feel it coming. “I wasn’t sure…I mean,” he took a deep breath. “What do you think the chances are of your brother not bringing this up?” he waved one hand between the two of them.

Mycroft’s hands stilled, eyes locking with Greg’s in the mirror. He spoke quietly. “Negligible.”

Greg swallowed. “And how do you feel about that?”

Mycroft’s hands lowered as he considered the question. His response was slow, and Greg could see that the words did not come easily to him. “I have no issue with the general population knowing about our relationship, though this is certainly sooner than I anticipated.” He frowned a little. “My concern is therefore how you feel about it.”

Greg shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t really care.” He grinned. “I’m planning on taking your brother down a few pegs if I can, you wanna come and see?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You don’t care?”

“A few people know I’ve dated blokes,” Greg replied. “And gossips will gossip. We can’t stop Sherlock running his mouth, if he hasn’t already. No point stressing about it.” He shrugged again. “So the question really is, do you want to come see me and Sherlock have it out or not?”

“You…you’re not…” Mycroft stopped, pressing his lips together. He took a deep breath. “You don’t mind if your colleagues know you’re…seeing…me?”

Greg’s eyes softened as he realised what Mycroft was really asking.

“No,” he said firmly, stepping forward, turning Mycroft around so they could look at each other properly. “I am not ashamed of us,” he said, deliberately including himself in the statement, running his hands down Mycroft’s arms. “I probably wouldn’t be telling people so soon if your brother wasn’t so…”

“Open?” Mycroft supplied wryly.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “I’d keep work and life separate for a while, you know?” When Mycroft nodded hesitantly, Greg went on, “But that’s because of me, I like to keep myself to myself. It is not because of you. It is not a reflection of you.” Greg felt his heart squeeze as he studied Mycroft’s face - it was so important he understood.

“Very well,” Mycroft said eventually. He smiled a little. “I would like to think my grooming is a reflection of me. Might I finish taming my hair?”

“Of course,” Greg said, dropping a quick kiss on his mouth. “I’ll wait by the lift.”

Two minutes later he was done, the lift taking them down to the foyer and into the car waiting in the pre-dawn air.

“When did you call for this?” Greg asked as they slid into the back.

“Before I dressed,” Mycroft replied.

Greg nodded, but his mind immediately supplied images of Mycroft dressing, and he bit his lip.

“Greg,” Mycroft said quietly, an amused warning in his tone.

“I can’t help it, you mentioned it first,” Greg grumbled good-naturedly. He glanced over – Mycroft was looking out the window, a faint smile on his face.

Greg was still waking up, and the few moments between Mycroft’s and NSY were spent in a companionable silence. He wondered if Mycroft was thinking about his brother, but couldn’t think of any way of asking without feeling like he was prying. Mycroft would share if he wanted to.

Just as he accepted it, Mycroft turned to look at Greg. He saw the contemplative expression, and Greg had the oddest impression he knew Greg wanted to ask, but would not. As Greg expected, he didn’t speak, but the smile widened into affection that warmed Greg far more effectively than the heating system.

When they arrived, Greg took a deep breath, making sure his jacket was zipped as he walked down to the cells, bracing for what certainly waited. An irritated Sherlock was not fun at the best of times, and airing his personal laundry to quell it was replacing one problem with another. The desk was empty, as he’d expected at this time of the morning. A moment later, the duty sergeant appeared.

“Sergeant,” Greg greeted him. It wasn’t someone with whom he was familiar, so he pulled out his ID.

“You’re here for Holmes, then,” the sergeant said. “I’m Sergeant Latham. DS Donovan’s the one that booked him, and since it’s her pressing charges-”

“Wait, what?” Greg said. “I thought he was here on property charges.”

“Well yeah,” Sergeant Latham said, unlocking the main door, “but she’s the one he assaulted.”

He looked at Mycroft, not realising he’d just broken the news to Sherlock’s brother. With a sigh, Mycroft waved one hand at Greg. “You do it,” he said, looking defeated. “I will wait here.”

Greg opened his mouth, then changed his mind. “Won’t be long,” he said. He followed Latham down the corridor, trying to decide exactly how he’d approach Sherlock. With two paces to go he decided; as always it would depend on Sherlock. If he shot his mouth, Greg would let him have it. Hopefully they could do it a bit more civilised this time, but he’d leave it in Sherlock’s hands.

“Morning, Sherlock,” he said to the man sitting on the bench.

Sherlock tilted his head up enough to survey Greg before groaning in irritation and allowing his head to fall back against the wall.

Greg geared up but to his astonishment Sherlock simply stood up and approached the bars. When Greg crossed his arms, Sherlock said, “It will be considerably easier for me to leave if you open the door, you know.”

“You assaulted a police officer, from what I’ve heard.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. “I sat down, as I said I would if Donovan did not let me finish examining the suspects’ tyres. It was rather abrupt, actually. She didn’t let me go, she fell over. I fail to see how that’s my fault.”

Greg chewed on his lip as he considered this. Might be worth finding out what Sally had to say about it. “I’ll be back,” he said. The look of consternation on Sherlock’s face was almost worth getting dragged out of bed.

As he turned the corner Greg almost bowled Donovan over. She scowled until she recognised him. As she opened her mouth, Greg held up one hand. “Don’t say anything.” He knew he looked rough, and she’d never seen his leather jacket.

Sally looked back at him, a mixture of resignation and frustration on her face.

“Seriously,” he said, “are you really going to press charges on this?”

She looked almost mutinous and Greg wondered if he was going to have to pull rank.

“I noticed his brother’s here,” she said in the end, “please tell me you came in together.”

He stared at her. “We did.”

She stared right back before finally smiling a tight smile. “Thank Christ,” she said. “I’m happy for you, of course, but I bet this’ll really rub him up the wrong way.” She jerked her thumb towards the cell where Sherlock remained. “And that makes me happy enough to drop the charges.”

Greg rolled his eyes at her. “Just do me two favours okay? You’ve gotta stop calling Sherlock Freak.” At the look on her face he added, “If it makes you feel better, he might be my brother-in-law one day.”

“Jesus, you move fast,” she smirked.

“And,” Greg said, cutting off any further commentary, “just…” he faltered for a moment, “just be cool about all this. With Mycroft. Please. It’s important.” He felt his heart thud as she stared at him.

“You weren’t kidding about the brother-in-law thing, were you?” she said. “Christ, you’ve got it bad.” Her face softened. “It looks good on you.”

“Even at fuck-o’clock in the morning?” he countered.

“Well, no, but it kind of spoils the mood to say it,” she told him.

“Right, well, glad that’s sorted,” he said. “Go let Sherlock out, will you?” he smirked at her. “I’m going back to my weekend.”

“Right,” she said. Impulsively, she hugged him. Touched, he hugged her back before they went their separate ways.

Mycroft stood as Greg returned, rolling his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’ll tell you later.”

“And Sherlock?” Mycroft asked carefully.

“Sally’ll let him off with a warning,” Greg replied. “As it turns out, report of the assault were greatly exaggerated.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied eventually.

As they stood to leave, Sally returned, Sherlock preceding her out the door as though he owned the place.

“Brother,” Sherlock drawled, and Greg once again braced for a cutting comment or five.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft replied cautiously.

“Greg,” Sherlock said, drawing the immediate attention of everyone in the room. “Perhaps you and my brother should consider a weekend getaway, since personal time in London seems so difficult to find.”

He left without another word, three pairs of eyes following him out of the room.

“Let’s go,” Greg said, “before anything else happens.”

They’d made it all the way out to the car before Greg realised he’d put his phone down somewhere. Swearing to himself, he raced back inside, running into Sally in the foyer.

“Ah, you dropped your phone,” Sally said to Greg, holding it. She handed it over and disappeared back towards her office. He frowned, wondering where she’d found it, but a wave of fatigue came over him and he shrugged. Not like it mattered anyway.

Their car was still waiting for him, and in just a moment they had left the station behind them.

“Thank God,” Greg said sitting back. “Went pretty smoothly, all things considered.”

Mycroft looked sideways at him, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his buzzing phone.

“I fear our definitions of smoothly might not marry well,” Mycroft murmured. As he blinked at the screen, Greg realised his phone was buzzing too.

 

_Thank me later – your leave’s approved. See you Wednesday. I’ll keep Sherlock occupied. – Sally_

 

“What?” Greg asked aloud.

He glanced over at Mycroft, who was frowning at his own phone. “You okay?”

Mycroft nodded hesitantly. “A message from Anthea,” he said absently.

“Yeah, mine’s from Sally,” Greg said. Mycroft looked up, a questioning look meeting Greg’s eyes. Greg shrugged and showed Mycroft the screen. As he read, Mycroft’s face cleared.

“Definite-” he started, before another message came into Greg’s phone. They both looked as the words appeared.

_Enjoy your time, Detective Inspector. Please tell Mr. Holmes the summer cottage is ready should he require it. – Anthea_

 

“Anthea?” Greg asked. As he watched, his screen went black. The battery wasn’t dead – but the phone would not turn on. Helplessly, he looked at Mycroft.

“I believe we’ve been handled,” Mycroft told him, holding up his own dark screen. “It sounds as though your phone was taken,” an image of Sally hugging him, and Greg swore at his inattention, “Anthea contacted, and our joint leave arranged.”

Greg gaped at him. “Sally did that?”

“I believe she worked in collaboration with Anthea,” Mycroft confirmed. “And our communication has been curtailed, emergencies notwithstanding.”

“I…wow.” He was reeling with the knowledge that Anthea had such power, that Sally would pickpocket him…and that he and Mycroft suddenly had four days to spend together. Four whole days… “So what do you want to do?” Greg asked. He knew what he’d like to do, four days without any other plans. His cock jumped at the very idea.

Mycroft looked at him. “Well, we don’t have to…”

“What?” Greg asked. “Spend every second together?” He squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “I was thinking more like, we don’t have to get out of bed.”

A fierce blush blossomed immediately across Mycroft’s cheeks. “Well yes, that is also an option,” he murmured.

“What did Anthea say about a cottage?” Greg asked. “Is it far?”

Mycroft looked speculatively at him, then smiled tentatively. “It is not,” he said. The smile spread further and he asked, “How quickly can you pack?”

They spent ten minutes at Greg’s flat as he packed, throwing things in a bag as he opened drawers and ducked into the bathroom. He concentrated as much as possible on what he was grabbing, acutely aware of Mycroft, of the time stretching ahead of them. The uninterrupted time, and the unfinished business from the night before…he paused, catching Mycroft’s eye – and it was there too, in Mycroft’s eyes. The want. The knowledge that they were essentially packing for a sex holiday.

Greg smiled, zipped his carryall closed and kissed Mycroft hard. “Let’s grab your stuff, then,” he said, a little more breathless than he thought he should be. When would kissing Mycroft stop having that effect? Never, he hoped.

They ducked into a café near Greg’s for something to eat, neither willing to concentrate on cooking. Greg wasn’t starving, but he knew he needed to eat something. The arousal churned in his stomach, making the eggs and bacon sit less than comfortably; he barely made it half way through his meal.

“Please tell me you’re going to eat something,” Greg told Mycroft as he worked on his eggs.

His pointed stare made Mycroft roll his eyes, but he snared a piece of toast from Greg’s plate, nibbling his way through it before Greg set his plate aside. They met each other’s eyes and called for the bill at the same time.

When they arrived at Mycroft’s flat, Sherlock hadn’t even bothered going up. He was slouched against the wall smoking when the car pulled up. Neither Mycroft nor Greg made any pretence at being happy to see him.

Greg placed one hand on Mycroft’s chest, looking at him intently, feeling the tension. _I’ll handle him._

“What is it, Sherlock?” Greg asked bluntly, deliberately standing between the brothers. The last thing he needed was Sherlock provoking anything.

“I went back to see Donovan and she told me you’re _not available_ ,” Sherlock sneered. “I can see you two are off somewhere together. Christ, together for a matter of hours and you’re abandoning your posts!”

“Pretty sure you suggested we do a weekend getaway,” Greg reminded him. Before Sherlock could speak, he added, “We’re off for a few days, but it’s none of your business. Sally will keep you in cold cases, if you are reasonable to her, and if you promise not to go stampeding into any more alleged scenes without her. Or me, if you can wait that long.”

Sherlock made to protest, but Greg stepped in close. “I could have left you there, this morning,” he said quietly. “Let Sally book you, deal with the hassle of sitting in a cell for the rest of the weekend.” He held up a hand to the next protestation. “No, Sherlock. Your brother and I are going to his cottage. We are going until Wednesday morning. I will meet you at my desk at 9am Wednesday and you can rant about whatever you want, drag me to look at the undersides of cars or whatever you think is relevant. But until then,” he looked severely at Sherlock, “nothing. Not even a hint of you, to either of us. Do you understand me?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but something in Greg’s face must have convinced him, because he nodded stiffly, then again to his brother before striding down the street.

Greg watched him until he turned the corner. Taking a deep breath he spun to find Mycroft again. He couldn’t believe it had worked, actually. Sherlock wasn’t usually so compliant…but that was not his problem now.

“What did you say to him?” Mycroft asked in astonishment.

“Must just be my persuasive manner,” Greg grinned at him. “Needless to say, we won’t be seeing him for a few days.”

When Mycroft looked unconvinced, Greg stepped closer. “Look, we can worry about Sherlock and he will definitely ruin our long weekend.” He grinned and lowered his voice. “Or we can ignore him and do stuff that means if he does show up, we’ll ruin his long weekend.”

As understanding dawned, Mycroft’s expression turned hungry. “Shall we start right away?” he murmured.

Greg grinned.


	10. Two

The ride in the lift was interminable; Greg could only remember the last time they’d ridden up, Mycroft’s not so subtle power play demonstrating that he too was prepared to tease.

Greg was hard before the doors opened.

“As I said last time we were here,” Greg said, turning to Mycroft as they entered the foyer, “I will suck you off right here if you want me to.”

Mycroft’s face slackened in surprise before he swallowed. Several long breaths passed before Mycroft nodded.

Three steps over and Greg was kissing him hard, fingers tangling in the hair Mycroft had worked so hard to tame. The mouth he was kissing was enthusiastic, open and wet and wanting, and Greg groaned. Finally. _Finally._ He pressed close, as close as he could in so many clothes, gripping Mycroft, feeling arms pulling him in, a hardness to answer his own press against his thigh.

Excellent. Now was hardly the time for subtlety; Greg dropped immediately to his knees, pressing his face to Mycroft’s groin, breathing hot air against the fabric. The floor was hard under his knees, some kind of marble tile, but he didn’t care. The only hardness he was thinking about was right here and as corny as the thought was, it made him even harder. His fingers reached up, fumbling with Mycroft’s button fly until longer fingers appeared over his, stopping him.

His breath hitched, and Greg looked up, confused, seeking an answer.

Mycroft looked down, expression impassive. He couldn’t hide his bright eyes, or the slightly open mouth; the fact made Greg’s heart thud even harder.

“Concentrate, Greg,” Mycroft murmured, the slightly amused tone of someone not asking, cloaking his power in distain. “I do have a country to run, after all. A meeting I simply cannot be late for. Efficiency on your behalf would be preferable.”

“Fuck me up,” Greg breathed, hips jerking forward involuntarily at the hot spike of desire hitting him low in the pelvis. Shaking, he picked up Mycroft’s fingers, kissing each in turn before burying them in his hair. Miracle of miracles he managed the button fly with more ease this time and wasted no time tugging black pants down just far enough to free the obscenely hard cock beneath.

Greg barely had a good look before he opened his mouth and sucked Mycroft down as deep and fast as he could go. Back in the day, he’d fancied himself a decent blow; several guys had told him so, even if they were in alleyways behind the likes of the Silver Stud. It had been a while, but the mechanics came back to him easily.

It wasn’t hard to know what someone liked when they groaned, twisted fingers in your hair and swore like a sailor every time you did something particularly good. Greg tried to pay attention, but his own arousal was spiralled higher by the mouthful of cock he was currently rubbing his tongue over. He relished the weight of it, opening his mouth, making it difficult to move his tongue. The tiny kicks of Mycroft’s hips as he gripped Greg’s hair were tantalising - holding onto his control with the iron grip Greg knew he had.

_One day I want you to lose that control and just fuck my mouth._

Not the time for that particular kink, Greg thought to himself, taking Mycroft deep again, pressing his tongue to the frenulum and tugging gently on Mycroft’s balls. The shout of his name and tightening grip was a good thing, so he did it again, tongue moving restlessly back and forth, caressing the same spot, fingers exploring, eyes closing as he felt Mycroft thicken even more, the stutter of hips and words that meant only one thing…

The shout was loud, and Greg didn’t know if the echo was genuine, given the hard floors, or simply a reflection of the pounding of his own heart at feeling Mycroft come apart in his mouth. The back of his throat filled, and he swallowed; some responses were still automatic, and he did it again, slowing his tongue, groaning as Mycroft’s fingers slid along his skull, cupping his head gently.

Greg opened his eyes to find Mycroft’s right there, looking at him with amazement and the afterglow of good sex. Great, if Greg was being immodest. He saw the wince that meant he should let Mycroft go; feeling the softening cock slide out of his mouth felt more intimate than the act he’d just performed. Pulling his eyes away, Greg stood slowly, wincing as his knees cracked in protest. Smiling to himself _(completely worth it)_ he tucked Mycroft away, re-buttoning his fly.

“Bit out of practice with a button fly,” Greg said. He looked at Mycroft, a wicked grin coming to his face. “I assume you’ll be in time for your important meeting, then?”

Mycroft frowned, and as he remembered what he’d said, Greg watched the flush flow up his cheeks. “I hope that was…”

“Hot as fucking hell,” Greg growled, kissing Mycroft before he could have any further concerns about that particular bit of foreplay. “One day, Mycroft Holmes, you know you could have me over your desk if you wanted.” The idea shot another bolt through him and he groaned again.

“Would it be terribly rude if I asked you to touch me?” Greg said, unable to resist pressing himself against Mycroft. “Some posh guy’s been ramping me up.”

Before he could speak again, Mycroft kissed him, shifting his hips so one hand could reach between Greg’s legs, palming him through his jeans.

“Oh fuck…” Greg swore, pressing into it with abandon. He gripped Mycroft’s coat, panting into his shoulder. “This won’t take…long, not w-with you in this suit…fuck…”

“You like my suit, Greg?” Mycroft asked, a little uncertainly.

“Oh, yeah,” Greg replied. “Love the suits…talk to me…tell me about the suits…”

He panted into the quiet for a moment, waiting for Mycroft, hoping he’d keep talking.

“Really?” Mycroft asked with the voice of one who already knows the answer. When a groan came, confirming his answer, Mycroft went on, pitching his voice lower. “I have them handmade, you know. Bespoke, each stitched personally for me. On the rare occasion there are errors, all other clients are pushed aside until corrections can be made.” He chuckled and Greg could feel his amusement at the effect he was having. His voice was like electricity, crackling over Greg’s skin; it was deep and increasingly self-assured, almost amused at the degree to which Greg was responding to him.

Greg had never felt so attuned to someone. He needed more…

Greg fumbled with his fly – a standard zipper thank God – and tugged down his pants, a mute appeal for skin on skin that Mycroft happily obliged.

“Oh fuck, yes, please Mycroft, please…” Greg begged, unable to stop his hips as he pushed his cock through the ring of Mycroft’s hand. He could feel Mycroft’s other hand on the back of his neck, holding him there, breathing hard against the expensive suit.

“It seems the buttons were not the reason you took so long earlier,” Mycroft noted, his voice silky. “Zips also appear to be a problem for you.”

“Practice,” Greg panted. “I can…practice.”

“I think you shall have to,” Mycroft agreed, sounding more confident.

The electricity was coalescing in his pelvis with every word, dragging him closer and closer to oblivion.

“A man like me can’t be standing around all day, you know. I have people to meet with, or rather, they have to meet with me. The Royal Family will wait for precious few people, you know.”

Greg groaned at the power this implied. His hips thrust harder, chasing release, gasping with the effort.

“I’ll have to talk to my tailor, if zips truly are easier for you,” Mycroft mused, “though you’ll need to show me you’re worth the time, Greg.” His hand sped up, meeting Greg’s increasingly frantic thrusts. His hand was tight, pre-come making it slick enough to slide fast; Greg felt his arousal coiling tighter, impossibly tight. He just needed…needed…

“Whatever you do,” Mycroft said, “do _not_ come on my suit.”

Greg came on his suit.

The words were the catalyst, tearing Greg apart; he held onto Mycroft, knowing he was coming but with no control; other than his hands he had no idea where any part of him was. He could only ride the sensation, his throat tight and sore from shouting, fingers tight in Mycroft’s coat. Finally, Greg’s hips stuttered to a halt, his breath leaving him in an explosive whoosh.

Mycroft’s hand slowed.

Greg opened his eyes, looking down, eyes widening as he saw the mess on Mycroft’s shirt and trousers. “Shit…”

“No,” Mycroft said, cutting off any further comments. He followed Greg’s gaze down, examining the stripes of come now decorating him. “A little reverse psychology, if you’ll forgive the tactic…”

There was some on the lining of his jacket too, Greg could see. “Are you sure?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. He tilted Greg’s chin up, meeting his lips in a kiss, soft and slow. Comforting. When they parted he smiled a little. “I can send it out to have it cleaned, of course.”

“Oh, can you?” Greg asked, feigning astonishment.

“Yes, I’m a very powerful man,” Mycroft said with a straight face.

“Really. I didn’t know,” Greg replied. He felt a ridiculous grin spread over his face. “That was amazing,” he added. “You can tell me about your bespoke suits anytime.”

Mycroft’s face coloured. “Really, Greg,” he admonished. “That’s…arousing?”

“They’re a symbol of the power you wield, Mr. Holmes,” Greg told him, adjusting his pants and trousers. “Sexy as hell if you ask me.”

Mycroft still looked unconvinced.

“Did you not witness me just coming all over you as you told me all about how much influence you have?” Greg asked. He shivered at the memory. “I call bullshit on you keeping the Queen waiting, though.” He looked over to see Mycroft grinning smugly, one eyebrow raised. “No. Really?”

“I should change,” Mycroft murmured, deferring the question with a little smirk.

Greg, still shaking his head, followed Mycroft into his dressing room. The coat had escaped damage, but Mycroft’s shirt and suit were folded into a pile, the stickier sections carefully tucked away so nobody inadvertently touched them.

Miles and miles of pale skin faced Greg and he felt his mouth grow dry at the very sight. _Christ._ He was frozen for a long beat before his mouth worked enough to speak.

“You weren’t planning on getting dressed again, I hope?” Greg asked.

Mycroft stilled, his hand on the shirt he had selected. “I beg your pardon?” he asked. The dressing gown he had donned was still covering him; Greg had bitten back a protest when his dirty shirt had been immediately replaced with it. And before his trousers and socks had been removed – such a shame.

“I mean,” Greg said, stepping forward, “we were dragged from our bed this morning.” He made a theatrical yawn and shucked his leather jacket, dropping it behind him. “I could definitely do with a few more hours sleep.”

“I thought we were going to the cottage this morning,” Mycroft protested weakly, though his breath had hitched as Greg’s jacket hit the floor.

Greg eased one hand into the fold of the dressing gown, cupping over Mycroft’s shoulder, drawing the two sides apart. “Or this afternoon,” he countered. His hand skated down, slowly tipping the fabric from Mycroft’s shoulder. He glanced up, checking this was alright.

Mycroft was watching him, his face mostly calm. There was a tight muscle in the corner of his jaw, and Greg didn’t think, just leaned in to kiss it, pressing his lips to the place as his fingers slid across smooth skin. When there was no protest he raised his other hand, pulling the lapel aside, pressing his palm to Mycroft’s chest.

“So d’you wanna come back to bed with me?” Greg asked, shifting his attention to Mycroft’s ear. The lobe there was so tempting and he licked around it, drawing it into his mouth, sucking lightly. His hearing was attuned to Mycroft, still wanting some indication either way.

When Mycroft’s breath hitched, Greg paused.

When he moaned, Greg grinned and grazed his teeth over the skin.

Another moan and a hand on the back of his neck: bingo.

The sound skittered down Greg’s spine and to his surprise, stirred his cock a little. He huffed a pleased sound, continuing to work at Mycroft’s ear as he found the dressing gown tie and tugged at it. It loosened easily, the smooth fabric falling from Mycroft’s shoulder; only his raised arm, still pressing at Greg’s neck, held the fabric aloft.

Greg gently encouraged the hand to relent for long enough to coax the dressing gown off, and it fell to the floor. Resisting the urge to touch greedily, Greg kept his hands light, sweeping over Mycroft’s chest, the smooth skin like silk beneath his palms. He could feel the small muscles trembling under his touch and once again marvelled at Mycroft’s self-control. His ears were filled with the sounds of breathing – just air in and out, slow and measured, the occasional moan when his teeth passed over Mycroft’s ear. It surrounded him, a regular swoosh of sound that pushed Greg’s heartrate steadily higher.

The whine was almost inaudible.

Greg did not stop his hands, but repeated the motion – a long sweep up and over shoulders, down his chest, feeling the subtle musculature under his…there it was again. A definite whine as the heels of his hands skated over Mycroft’s nipples. The breathing was no longer slow and measured; it was almost panting, moans a regular feature now.

A third time, and those nipples were tighter; he circled them with his hands, smirking around Mycroft’s ear at the panting moan, deep and loud. There was no biting it back now.

“Interesting,” Greg murmured. His cock was definitely filling out now; hearing Mycroft’s quiet responses was really doing it for him. He’d always loved hearing his partner enjoying themselves but never had someone’s voice ever had such an effect on him. The sounds Mycroft was making, the small noises making it through the iron control. He was breaking it down.

He had the power over the man with the power.

It was intoxicating.

Mycroft was still breathing hard as Greg’s hands moved restlessly over his torso, occasionally lingering on his nipples, drinking in the moans Mycroft released at the sensation. Each kicked a burst of energy through Greg, his muscles tingling, lungs burning, heart thumping with the swirl of sensation.

It was almost hypnotic, knowing when the sounds would come, what they would do; the heat in his blood coursed through him, pooling in his groin as he felt himself grow harder with each sound. Greg wanted to just settle his hands o any of a dozen places, brushing again and again in the same spot; he knew he could wind Mycroft up that way. He wondered how long Mycroft would take it.

How long until he begged.

Suddenly Greg needed more. More contact than he could get with his shirt still on.

Without warning he pulled his mouth from Mycroft’s ear and asked him, “Left or right?”

“Wha…what?” Mycroft stuttered.

“Left. Or. Right.” Greg repeated. His hands had stopped now, brushing as lightly as he’d been thinking about doing up and down Mycroft’s ribs. When Mycroft didn’t reply Greg turned his hands over.

He caught Mycroft’s left nipple between thumb and forefinger, tugging gentle. “Left.”

Soothing the left, he picked up the right nipple instead, giving it the same treatment. Tug, soothe. “Or Right.”

“Oh,” Mycroft moaned, understanding but riding the sensation as Greg massaged both nipples, fingers pressing firm circles. He swallowed. “Right.”

“Right,” Greg said. He dropped his head, lips seeking Mycroft’s right nipple, closing around it and pausing, giving him a moment to adjust.

He could feel the groan vibrate through Mycroft’s chest, and it was glorious. Tempting though it was to lose himself in this, Greg still felt the restless need to be closer, to have more. He needed to shed his own clothes.

Fingers fumbled again, on his own shirt this time, tugging the sleeves down his arm, fighting to concentrate on two things at once. Mycroft’s hands were in his hair now, fingers pressing to his skull, adding sparks of arousal to his blood; along with the noises coming regularly now, Mycroft was making it bloody hard for Greg to concentrate.

His shirt was gone now and Greg ripped at his zipper, not caring if his trousers tore or not.

There were more important things to consider. Like skin on skin, being close to Mycroft. Touching him, pressing against him, feeling his moans vibrate through Greg’s body. Showing Mycroft what effect he was having on Greg.

Greg’s hands were shaking so hard he could barely find the waistband of his trousers. Kicking his legs dislodged his mouth from Mycroft; panting, gasping, he kicked at his trousers, peeled socks and shoes; only when he was standing in his pants did he look up at Mycroft, breathing hard.

The man before him looked beautiful. Flushed across his chest and up his neck; eyes bright, lips parted, wet and red, all that colour against the alabaster skin...

A powerful shot of arousal shot through Greg and his cock pulsed hard, strong enough to pull him forward a little. He held Mycroft’s gaze, though his eyes fluttered almost closed at the wide grey eyes staring back.

“That’s you,” Greg whispered. He stepped forward, over his discarded clothes, pressing himself into Mycroft, groaning as he felt the pressure against him, knowing it was Mycroft’s arousal pushing against his. “Christ…fuck, Myc...roft. Thi...this.” Greg wrenched his eyes open, looking at Mycroft, waiting to see the grey looking back at him. “This is you.” Greg pressed again, watching Mycroft’s face change, feeling it flow through both of them.

“Fuck,” Mycroft whispered, grabbing at him, pulling him closer. “Greg…”

“I want you,” Greg said hoarsely. “Can we…come to bed with me. Please.”

“Oh god,” Mycroft whined, pressing again. “Yes, please…Greg.”

Greg kissed him, unable to resist the open mouth, pressing his tongue into Mycroft, tasting the wet heat that had teased him earlier. It was as sweet and tempting as he thought; but he had a bigger goal.

Pulling away with reluctance, Greg found Mycroft’s hand, dragging him from the dressing room to the bed. He stopped, stripping off his pants before turning to Mycroft, groaning when he saw Mycroft following his lead.

They stood opposite each other naked for the first time, breathing hard. Twin erections stood out from heaving bodies, flushed and waiting. Greg knew his eyes were locked on Mycroft’s body, mesmerised, wanting every piece he could see. When he finally dragged his eyes high enough he could see grey eyes roving over his body in the same way.

They came together, frantic and needy.

There was none of the playfulness they’d shown; no time for teasing words, knowing looks; this was elemental, two bodies yearning to be together without flourishes.

Greg reached immediately for Mycroft’s cock, pressing it to his own; the groan was loud, and only the fact that it hurt his throat told him it came from his body. Greg felt fingers join his own, his hand and Mycroft’s twisting together around them. He didn’t know who started thrusting first; he knew he stopped, pulling first Mycroft’s hand and then his to his mouth, licking a wide stripe as wet as he could up both their palms before they both returned, thrusting into the wetness, breathing hard into the same space. Heads on shoulders, creating their cocoon, watching hands fly over sensitive skin, hips press in and out, chasing the ultimate release.

It was fast and completely without finesse and hot as hell.

“Fuck,” Greg moaned, speeding up, feeling his world pull in, all the touch and smell, the taste of sweat from Mycroft’s palm, the sound of his breathing, the feel of his cock sliding through their joined hands. “Fuck, Mycroft…I’m, I’m, I’m…oh, fuck…”

He couldn’t hold it back any longer, the energy pulled in exploding. Part of his brain could not believe he was even capable of another explosive orgasm so soon after the last one. The rest of his brain was trying to process the sensory information flooding in. Touch, smell, the sound of Mycroft dropping over the edge with him, his voice growing strained until he stopped speaking, simply groaning at the sensation.

The slickness of come sliding along pulsing cocks, until aftershocks dwindled into oversensitivity until they eased hips away, heads still resting together.

“Fuck,” Greg managed. Every time he thought he had a bit of a handle on Mycroft, on the way they related, things changed.

At first he was the not so experienced partner, a little unsure; that was fine.

Then all of a sudden he was cool with a bit of teasing, the verbal power play, definitely okay.

Now Greg could barely keep his hands off the man and he’d said hardly a word. In fact it had been Greg wielding a little control until all pretence had been stripped away and they had just crashed together, basically rutting like teenagers towards their second orgasm in an hour.

This was not what he had expected.

“You okay?” he asked, feel his breathing slow a little. He picked up his shirt and wiped his hand and stomach.

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll just…a flannel,” he explained, moving into the bathroom.

Christ, they hadn’t even touched the bed, Greg thought. He was still standing, trying to get things straight in his mind when Mycroft returned, wrapped in a robe, offering a wet flannel.

Greg accepted, cleaning himself up. He looked at his pants – the same ones he’d worn here after their date, and said, “We didn’t bring my bag up from the foyer, did we?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I can offer you a robe, if you’d like.”

Greg considered. “Kind of depends. I could seriously use a couple of hours of sleep. What about you?”

Mycroft’s eyes were firmly on his face. “I could sleep,” he said cautiously. “If you actually mean sleep. I’m not sure I could…”

The blush told Greg what he was hinting at.

“Christ, me either. That second time took me by surprise, to be honest.”

“Me too,” Mycroft admitted. It was still kind of funny to see the man blush at such carefully constructed conversation, Greg thought, after they’d just shared something so intimate. Bodies are different to words, he reminded himself.

“Yeah, sleep.” Greg confirmed. “They maybe something to eat, and some coffee, then we could leave for the cottage in time to stay tonight, what do you think?”

“An excellent plan,” Mycroft replied.

“Good, in that case I don’t need pants,” Greg told him. He walked around to the other side of the bed in full knowledge Mycroft would be checking out his arse. It wasn’t as good as when he was 20, but it was a respectable effort for a guy who did as much paperwork as he did.

“You going to join me?” Greg asked. “Don’t have to if you’re not tired.”

“After the morning we’ve had, I am certainly tired,” Mycroft replied. Greg hid his grin at Mycroft’s avoidance of the word ‘orgasm’, but it softened into affection when he reappeared from the bathroom in pyjama pants. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, gesturing to his trousers.

“Of course not,” Greg said. He pulled Mycroft in under the covers and kissed him, bringing one hand up to his face. For all the heart thumping adrenalin fuelled incredible experience of the last hour, this was what Greg yearned for. Fucking was one thing but this closeness was special. It was less about bodies and more about souls. About putting himself there, in the space, and allowing himself to be seen, allowing his soul to be seen. Mycroft’s eyes were grey, soft and clear, watching Greg as his brain worked through this.

It was more than he’d thought it would be. From last week, soft kissing on his sofa, they’d played, Mycroft’s words driving him higher than he thought they even could, and then they had clashed together, frantic and filthy this afternoon.

Each contact had been acceleration, a refining of their relationship, of how Greg saw their connection. It was quicker than he expected, and deeper and less steady. He wanted to pause for a moment, check in with Mycroft, make sure they were still on the same page. He needed to know Mycroft was experiencing the same thing he was. Wanted to have him there, alongside. Together.

“How are you?” Greg asked carefully.

For a long while, they breathed together while Mycroft’s mind worked.

“I am....not sure,” Mycroft replied. “This is…intense.”

“Yes,” Greg agreed. “It is.”

“It has developed faster than I anticipated,” Mycroft said, reaching for the words.

Greg nodded, leaning forward, brushing their mouths together. “I know,” he said. “You don’t have to explain it. It’s the same for me.” He closed his eyes. _I need to know._ “Is it too much?” he asked. “Do we need to slow things down?” He swallowed.

_Please say no. I didn’t know I needed this but I think I really do._

The grey eyes were waiting for him when he opened his eyes. “No,” Mycroft said quietly. “It has taken me by surprise, but it feels right.”

A wave of relief flowed through Greg. He knew it showed on him, and he saw it reflected on Mycroft’s face. “Let’s sleep, then,” he said quietly.


	11. Cottage

The moments between waking and arriving at the cottage were quiet, and Greg enjoyed them immensely. He and Mycroft had travelled an enormous emotional distance in the previous 24 hours, and they had come to a new place together. Words were superfluous; they were adjusting to their new understanding, accommodating their awareness of each other.

The shower woke Greg, Mycroft emerging pink and warm, wrapped in his robe. Mycroft had collected Greg’s bag from the foyer while the percolator bubbled. Soft smiles and murmured words, a gentle embrace before Greg headed to the shower; the water was cathartic and he felt calm as he dressed.

“Feel like I should say good morning,” Greg said, consciously lowering his voice in the still space of the kitchen. It was actually late afternoon; with only an hour of travel ahead of them, they were in good time to arrive in time for an evening meal.

“It does,” Mycroft agreed. He had tidied up their trail of clothes and packed while Greg showered. “Are you hungry?”

“I am, yeah,” Greg admitted. They hadn’t eaten since their aborted breakfast that morning. The fruit and yoghurt Mycroft offered now was perfect, far lighter on his stomach than the meal he’d struggled to stomach earlier that day. He even managed to convince Mycroft to have a small portion, simply by serving it to him.

Greg had the feeling he would be coaxing Mycroft to eat on a near to daily basis.

Mycroft drove them to the cottage himself, handling the Lexus an obvious pleasure for him. Greg relaxed, watching Mycroft guide the car with confidence, the quiet competence and calm a joy to watch. It was something new, a piece of the Mycroft puzzle he had not known existed. He felt a quiet curl of satisfaction at the knowledge.

When they arrived, Greg sighed, the tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere like a secret hideaway. A scattering of trees and a tiny stream completed the idyllic landscape. He smiled as they opened the door, looking around the open living area. Sparsely furnished, it had all they would need; a large bookshelf and lack of television told Greg that this was a place for quiet solitude. He felt honoured that Mycroft had taken Anthea’s suggestion and brought him here.

“It’s perfect,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft hummed in agreement, taking their bags out of the room while Greg moved towards the kitchenette, filling the kettle and pulling down mugs and teabags from the open shelf above.

“We didn’t bring milk,” he said as Mycroft came back into the room. “Hope black tea is okay.”

“Did you not read Anthea’s message?” Mycroft asked. He opened the fridge and removed the bottle of milk. “She did say it was ready. I suspect there are clean sheets, hot water and breakfast materials.”

Greg amused himself opening and closing cupboards, making a mental catalogue of the food he found, marvelling again at the casual power Mycroft wielded. Hell, even his PA had power. He made a mental note to be extra nice to her next time they met. Just in case she had him deported or something.

The kettle boiled and Greg lost himself in the familiar routine of tea making. Steam, sugar, milk, bag out. He and Mycroft moved by mutual accord, sitting on opposite ends of the sofa with their milky drinks. Greg pulled his feet up, cradling his cup; Mycroft sat upright, tea on the coffee table. It felt comfortable.

“Nice place,” Greg said. He would be content to keep sitting in the quiet, but he felt like he should make an effort, at least. “Is it a family home?”

“It was,” Mycroft replied. “It belonged to my Uncle. When he died without an heir, I made an offer to his estate.”

Greg nodded, sipping at his tea. “Good memories?”

“Not really,” Mycroft replied, testing the temperature of his own tea. “I had been looking for a small property in this area, and I knew it had been maintained well and would be a reasonable price.”

They sat for a few minutes, drinking tea. Greg was enjoying the quiet, knowing it was just he and Mycroft in the cottage. It was very peaceful, actually, with the fading light, warm tea, good company. He closed his eyes for just a moment.

“Greg,” Mycroft said. He was a long way away, Greg thought vaguely. How strange. “Greg, put your tea down.”

“Whaa….” he tried to say. His mouth was slack, though and it took far more effort than it should.

 _Drugged,_ he brain whispered. Fuck. He was too deep in it now to do anything.

With a huge effort Greg opened his eyes.

Mycroft was blurry, slumped sideways on the sofa.

Eyes heavy.

Too heavy.

+++

Ow. The first think Greg registered was pain.

Pain in his head. He took an inventory of the rest of his body.

Heavy eyes. Dry mouth. Stiff knees.

Working his tongue around unglued his mouth a little; it still felt awful, like he hadn’t brushed his teeth.

_Mycroft…_

“Mycroft?” he croaked. His throat was dry. He was…on the same sofa. But this was not the same cottage. The light was different – still dim, but morning. Fuck, he’d missed a whole night, at least. He checked on Mycroft – still breathing, seemed okay but asleep. He must have been drugged too.

Greg stumbled up, stretching his stiff limbs, looking around. It was a simple space, one long room, two doors; to Greg’s surprise neither was locked. One was a bathroom, thank God, the other simply lead outside. They were in the middle of a field.

A field with cows, bordered by hedges, a road winding out up the hill.

Greg didn’t get it. What was the point in drugging them, bringing them here, and not locking the door?

He was standing there, looking outside, when he heard Mycroft stir.

“What…Greg…are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Hang on, let me get you some water.”

The tap ran cold and clear, but there were sealed bottles – a lot of them – in the fridge. A better option ‘til they could figure out what was going on. Greg grabbed one and cracked it open, passing it to Mycroft who was now sitting up.

“Do you recognise this place?” Greg asked.

“No,” Mycroft admitted. He drank some more before offering it to Greg. As Greg drank Mycroft looked around, frowning.

“Bathroom, and exit. Unlocked,” Greg said, pointing to each door.

“Unlocked?” Mycroft repeated, frowning.

“Yep,” Greg said, stretching again.

Mycroft stood – paused a moment, checking his balance – and walked over to the door, opening it gingerly.

He slammed it immediately, pressing his palms flat to the door.

“What?” Greg asked. A frisson of fear shot up his back. _Threat._ He grabbed at Mycroft, pulling him away from the door, pressing him into the floor, wincing at the hard floor, heart pounding. Keeping him down. Keeping him _safe_.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asked. His eyes were wild, he was breathing fast – something had scared him deeply.

“What did you see?” Greg whispered, heart thumping. He needed information, but he needed a plan. How was he going to protect Mycroft? Was there a weapon he could use? Maybe there was a hunting rifle somewhere?

Mycroft’s eyes were closed, his breathing shaky and deep, nostrils flaring as he worked to control his body. Greg waited, fighting the adrenalin coursing through his body.

“There is…a…” Mycroft breathed deeply. “Sherlock. This was...Sherlock.” He opened his eyes, looking imploringly at Greg. “It could be nobody else.”

The grey eyes were terrified, Greg could see; his heart beat even faster at the possibilities that would scare Mycroft so deeply. He watched as Mycroft closed his eyes, forcing the words from his throat.

“There is a… _cow_ …outside the door.”

Greg blinked. “A cow?”

Mycroft nodded, biting his lip. To Greg’s astonishment tears stood in his eyes as he fought his panic.

“You…don’t like…those animals, then?” Greg asked carefully. His own level of awareness had dropped as he realised the threat was not exactly what he’d thought.

“No,” Mycroft agreed. He breathed deeply again. “When I was younger…an incident with a bull. I am aware they are different sexes, however the similarities…” he shuddered.

“Okay,” Greg said. He tightened his grip on Mycroft, now for comfort rather than bodily protection. He made no effort to move; instead he kept his breathing deep and regular, encouraging Mycroft to match it, feeling the tense body in his arms slowly relax as the quiet seeped into Mycroft’s mind, bringing him back from the verge of a panic attack. Finally, Mycroft sighed and Greg took it as a sign he could speak.

 “So, this is your brother’s doing,” Greg said. He eased them up, sitting close; even this wasn’t that comfortable, on the hard floor.

“Almost certainly,” Mycroft confirmed. “I suspect he considers it amusing.”

“Of course he does,” Greg muttered. “When we get back to London, I may just kill him.”

“I believe you’ll have to take a number,” Mycroft replied.

“Okay,” Greg said. If Mycroft was making jokes he was alright. He had to determine the parameters of this stupid stunt, but first was Mycroft’s comfort. “Should I see if I can find something to cover the windows?” He stood up to examine them. “They don’t open, and they look pretty solid.”

Mycroft shook his head. “As long as we are secure, I am…comfortable.”

“Good.”

Greg licked his lips, concentrating and hoping like hell he was right. “If I remember, farmers generally move their cattle every few days.”

Mycroft looked at him hopelessly. “I have no idea.” It was obviously uncomfortable for him to be such a position of ignorance. Not something with which he was familiar – and even if there was a signal, neither of them had working phones, thanks to Anthea and Sally. They were flying blind, more or less.

“Okay,” Greg said, feeling more confident as he worked through his thought process. “Ignoring that. You say this was Sherlock.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Okay. And Sherlock would think this is funny? He wouldn’t want to hurt either of us?” Greg confirmed. He wanted to walk through this slowly, make sure he wasn’t making any overly ambitious leaps.

“I don’t believe so,” Mycroft replied. “Of course that doesn’t exclude the possibility of him inadvertently shutting us out here with insufficient resources to get ourselves home.”

“True,” Greg had to agree. “Let’s assume that’s not the case.”

“So if his intention is to be funny but not endanger us, there will be enough food and stuff to last us until the…herd moves on. There’s a road,” Greg added. “We can walk out, once they’re gone.”

He could see Mycroft processing this train of logic. The panic was strong, though and it warred visibly with his logical argument.

“Look,” Greg said. “If we accept all that, he also probably knows I’ll have no problem walking out there and getting help. So we’re not really trapped.”

“ _You’re_ not,” Mycroft said.

“ _We’re_ not,” Greg said firmly. “I can get help for both of us. But it’s a last resort. So here’s the plan,” he went on without waiting for Mycroft, “we wait here until we can both move, or someone comes along and we can get them to shift the herd, then we both walk out. If we run out of some essential resource, I will go and get help.”

Mycroft listened. Greg could tell from his hunched shoulders and pursed lips he didn’t love the idea, but finally, he did nod his head.

“Okay!” Greg said. He felt better with a plan. “Let’s see what we’ve got to work with!” A thought occurred to him as he tugged Mycroft to his feet. Pulling him into a hug, he murmured, “We should keep an eye out for cameras. We can disable them if you want, or we can do stuff that makes Sherlock not want to watch. Your call.”

Mycroft snorted, as close to a laugh as Greg figured he would get in the circumstances.

Digging through the kitchen, they found a surprising amount of food. Greg caught Mycroft suppressing a smile as he pulled a dozen packets of chocolate hobnobs from the cupboard.

“My favourites,” he admitted, colouring quietly. “Only Sherlock and Anthea would know.”

Without speaking, Greg slid his arms around Mycroft, squeezing him for a moment.

When they were done with the kitchen, Greg could see Mycroft had relaxed considerably as the evidence for ‘Sherlock pulling a prank’ piled up. They continued their examination of the space, finding the bags they’d packed and left in Mycroft’s cottage set on the lone double bed. The rest of the cottage yielded nothing but a pack of cards and a pile of linen in the cupboard, a standard supply of toiletries in the bathroom, and an enormous bottle of lube and mega box of condoms in the bedside table.

“Good grief,” Greg heard Mycroft murmur as he closed the bedside table. He left the cupboard and came over to see. Mycroft allowed him to open the drawer. Greg looked inside, keeping his face impassive as he registered the contents.

“That’s pretty considerate, actually,” he said. When Mycroft hadn’t replied, he looked over. “Look,” Greg said carefully. “I don’t know about you but I had a pretty good time yesterday.” He frowned. “I think it was yesterday. Whenever it was.” He smiled, catching Mycroft’s eye. “And we didn’t use any of this stuff. So we can spend the next however long using the condoms as poker chips with the cards I just found, or using them for their intended purpose, or anything else you like.”

Mycroft nodded. “I don’t have a lot of…experience with…” he waved a hand at the drawer. “Discussion.”

“Talking about sex?” Greg asked. “That’s fine, gorgeous. As long as you can show me what you like and what you don’t like.” Greg smiled. “You did a pretty good job of that yesterday. And as we established, you can talk to me about your suits and I’ll find it pretty bloody arousing.”

Mycroft nodded, turning into Greg for a hug. Greg’s heart swelled as he realised Mycroft was looking to him for comfort. Fighting down the emotion, he stroked Mycroft’s back. “D’you think you can do that for me?”

Mycroft nodded again, pressing into Greg, silently begging the hug to continue.

“I didn’t find any recording devices,” Greg said. “You?”

“No,” Mycroft replied. “I also didn’t find anything to do.”

“Well, I’ve got the cards. And we can cook, of course. But otherwise, it’s just you and me. Do you think we’ll figure out something to keep us occupied?”

“I think we might,” Mycroft replied, a slow smile coming over his face.


	12. New Rule Required

“Snap!” Greg cried, slapping his hand onto the pile of cards in front of him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, placing his remaining cards carefully on the table. “I believe I’ve reached my limit when it comes to cards, Greg,” he said.

“Come on, what else are we going to do?” Greg asked, collecting the cards. He grinned innocently at Mycroft. They’d been playing cards for an hour or so, Mycroft rolling his eyes and huffing as Greg suggested more and more juvenile games. Greg had been wondering how long Mycroft would last. It seemed Snap had been the last straw.

A raised eyebrow, and long fingers plucked the cards from Greg’s hands. “Might I suggest we cut for the high card? Winner makes a suggestion.”

“A suggestion?” repeated Greg. “About what?”

“That would be up to the winner,” Mycroft replied. The pink flush to his cheeks made a suggestion of its own, and Greg smirked his understanding.

“Okay, then,” Greg said, his smirk widening as Mycroft lowered his eyes, shuffling the cards with deft fingers. Long fingers, capable of… _Christ, I hadn’t thought about that for a while._ He swallowed, a host of possibilities involving those fingers flowing through his mind.

“Greg?” Mycroft said. He wasn’t even looking, flicking his fingers as the cards blurred past. Skill and precision, Greg thought, with a pulse of awareness.

“Yeah? Yeah, sorry,” Greg replied, pulling his eyes away from Mycroft’s hands.

“Are you…my hands?” Mycroft asked warily.

“Maybe,” Greg said, shrugging. “High card cut, is that right?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said, setting the cards on the table, fingers caging them to straighten the pack. “After you.”

Greg reached over, hesitating before taking a cut from the pile. He resisted the urge to look, instead holding Mycroft’s eyes.

The slight smirk on Mycroft’s face was a little disconcerting, as though he knew something Greg didn’t. He reached out slowly, running one finger along the top card, watching Greg’s face as he slid that card – and only that card – off the top of the pile.

“Will you look?” Greg asked him.

Mycroft turned his card up to face him, looking at it before running his forefinger along the edge and glancing down. “Interesting,” he murmured.

“You’re not going to let the hands thing go, are you?” Greg asked. He could hear his voice a little rougher, a direct link to the steady thickening of his cock.

“No,” Mycroft said consideringly, “I don’t think I am.” He turned his card over, revealing the ace of clubs.

Greg looked at it for a long time, biting his lip as he thought. “Well, I’m willing to concede,” he said, tapping the edge of his cards on the table before placing them face down on the pile without looking.

“Really,” Mycroft said. “And why would that be?”

“I’m quite interested in what you have in mind,” Greg told him, sitting back in his seat. “You seemed fairly sure when you came up with this idea. So I’d like to see what else you’ll suggest.”

Mycroft’s eyes had not left Greg’s while he spoke.

It was fascinating watching the grey eyes darken, Greg thought; unless you were watching carefully you might call Mycroft expressionless. As skilful as he was at keeping his inner thoughts from his face, Mycroft could not stop his eyes changing colour, the pupils from dilating as his body slowly came to life. Greg fought the impulse to shift in his seat; his circulation had shifted significantly, blood rushing to plump his cock until he was almost completely hard, just from watching Mycroft watching him.

And thinking about his hands.

With each thump of his heart – surprisingly slow, given how his trousers were now straining – Greg wondered what Mycroft might be thinking about. What would he suggest? What would he want to suggest? The ideas in his own head were tantalising, but this was in Mycroft’s hands.

_Don’t think about his hands._

As Greg tried to keep his face and body impassive, Mycroft cleared his throat.

“I…there are a number of things I would like to suggest,” Mycroft said, eyes still locked on Greg’s, face again reddening with his words. He opened his mouth again, then closed it.

Greg remembered how he’d coloured in the foyer, unconvinced that Greg really wanted him to talk; how carefully he’d spoken, choosing his words when they talked about sex.

“Maybe you could show me.” Greg spoke tentatively, not wanting to take the momentum away from Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded slowly, face still very red.

“I could…do you want me to talk?” Greg asked.

Another nod, and a little doubt creeping into Mycroft’s eyes.

“You tell me if I’m getting it wrong, okay?” Greg said quietly.

Another nod, and an easing of the doubt; Greg’s heart suddenly thumped harder. He was being entrusted with something important here, more than sex. It felt heavier, but fragile and he was conscious of the significance he was being gifted.

Greg offered a quiet smile, hoping it was encouraging. _Thank you. I know how important this is. I will be careful with you._

Mycroft met his gaze without moving for a long beat. Finally one hand extended, a single finger brushing across the back of Greg’s knuckles.

He shivered at the contact, holding Mycroft’s gaze.

“My hands,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg nodded. “I’ve been thinking about them,” he said.

Mycroft nodded. “They’re…evocative?”

Greg considered the question as Mycroft’s forefinger again brushed his knuckles, slower this time, following the dips and peaks of his bone structure. “Yes,” Greg said. He waited in the silence again, not wanting to push. Only when ten slow breaths had passed did he venture to ask, “Would you like me to tell you what I was thinking about?”

Mycroft nodded, though there was hesitation.

“No pressure,” Greg assured him. “Just telling you. Not asking.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “Please,” he added.

As the finger reached out again, caressing the skin, Greg spoke, words low and calm.

“It wasn’t until I saw you with those cards I really thought about it. It has crossed my mind before, but not quite so…vividly. About your fingers on me.” Greg swallowed. “In me.”

The finger on the back of his hand paused before resuming their steady path once again. “They’re long and pale, you know. Paler than my skin, white against my skin…” He trailed off, looking for the words to describe the rest of the scene in his head.

_Don’t be crass…_

“I can see you using those fingers on me, everywhere,” Greg said, choosing his words carefully. “I like how they feel on my skin. You’re so careful with me. Gentle, when you need to be. I imagine you’d be able to reach my prostate if you tried.” An involuntary shudder came through him at the idea. “I would want that, if you wanted it.”

Despite the multitude of images in his head, Greg found it impossible to voice any of them sitting at this table. Too far away, not enough contact…

He looked up, barely able to breathe as he waited for Mycroft to lift his gaze too, until their eyes met briefly. Mycroft’s eyes widened and he dropped them again, but too late. Greg could see the arousal sitting there, suppressed, pooling below the surface. _He’s as turned on as me, he just can’t express it._

“I want to kiss you…” Greg breathed, the control suddenly gone from his voice. He heard needy, desperate, rough.

Mycroft’s eyes, which had returned to his own finger tracing over Greg’s knuckles, snapped up at the sound, locking on Greg’s. His finger stuttered.

Greg assumed he would pull away.

He didn’t.

To Greg’s surprise Mycroft’s whole hand turned, pressing under Greg’s, gripping tight. “Yes,” he said, the same breathy roughness mirrored back. “Show me…please. Kiss me.”

Greg wasted no time, squeezing back hard before he stood up, pulling Mycroft to his feet. Greg barely made it around the table before he was reaching for Mycroft, eyes locked to the partly open mouth waiting for him. Dimly he registered his sleeve catching the pile of cards, scattering them across the table. Greg held back, feeling himself tremble as his mouth met Mycroft’s, wanting to devour him but show him how precious he was.

It was a difficult balance.

Mycroft did not make it any easier; he too was trembling, mouth moving insistently, breathing as hard as Greg. It seemed their conversation had been equally arousing on the other side of the table; the hardness of Mycroft’s cock against his was proof of it.

“Mycroft,” Greg groaned, the desire he’d been holding back rushing forth in a wave. He was rock hard now, fighting to keep himself from rutting against the willing body pressing along him. “I want…can you…”

“Can I undress you?” Mycroft asked, voice desperate with desire and embarrassment. “Easier to…touch…”

“God, yes,” Greg breathed, the very idea of his skin being more accessible taking his breath away.

They both scrabbled for their clothes, Greg focussing on himself rather than the increasingly naked Mycroft being revealed before him.

“Let’s actually make it to the bed this time,” Greg said as Mycroft folded his trousers, draping them over the chair with shaking hands. He took Mycroft’s hand and they made it across the room together, shedding the last of their clothes on the way.

Greg climbed up to kneel on the bed, pulling Mycroft along with him. “Did you…”

“Don’t talk,” Mycroft said quietly. He took a deep breath and Greg could see the effort it took for him to say the words. “Lie down. I want to explore you. Touch you…the way you described…”

He still sounded uncertain, though Greg fancied the groan he let out might have eased that somewhat. He took Mycroft’s face, pulling him in for a kiss just this side of desperate. “Of course it is. I want you to, as long as you want to.”

Christ, words were hard. Especially when Mycroft Holmes was hesitantly asking if he could go searching for your prostate.

“I do,” Mycroft replied, the pink flushing down his neck. He kissed Greg, more gently this time, and pressed on his shoulder, guiding him down to the duvet below.

Greg closed his eyes, breathing deeply, hoping desperately he didn’t come like a teenager the first time Mycroft brushed inside him.

_Fuck. Don’t think about it._

He could hear the drawer opening and closing, the heavy drop of what he assumed was the lube bottle on the bed. Greg felt the duvet shifting as Mycroft moved, the sensation of fabric across his skin heightened – naked with his eyes closed, his brain took every input and extrapolated it.

He tried to wait patiently, not knowing what Mycroft was thinking about, planning, bending his mind to decide upon. The very thought made his cock jump, his breath stutter; the man hadn’t even spoken to him and Greg’s body was reacting. There was no way he could stop his heart pounding, but the deep breathing was working to keep him at least partly in control of his own body.

It worked until Mycroft touched him.

A gentle finger caressed down the length of one arm, shoulder to knuckles. Greg flinched at the unexpected, then shivered as gooseflesh rose in the wake of the touch.

“Mycroft,” he whispered.

“Mmm?” came the reply. The touch was repeated with several fingers, a little more solid this time.

“Do you want me to…what do you want me to do?” Greg asked. He wasn’t sure if the talking from earlier was what Mycroft wanted, though holding a conversation through this might be a bit of a stretch. Making Mycroft comfortable was the main priority, though, and if that was what he wanted it was the least Greg could do.

“Just…be patient with me,” Mycroft said, voice soft. “I want to…I am not always as commanding as you liked yesterday…in my home.” His words were quiet but Greg heard the apology. He could almost feel the tension in the fingers now stoking slowly up and down his arm. _He thinks I’ll be disappointed_ , Greg realised.

“It’s not…I like you. I like that side of you. But not only that side,” Greg breathed, knowing it was important, struggling to find the right words. Frustrated, he sat up, opening his eyes to find Mycroft. The grey eyes were looking at him apprehensively and Greg felt a protective urge run through him.

“The idea of you in your perfect suit and the power to do pretty much whatever you want turns me on,” Greg started, looking determinedly at Mycroft. “A lot. And I definitely want to explore that. If you want to. But you’re not in a suit here.” He gestured to the table they’d just left, still scattered with cards. “Watching you shuffle cards was enough to get me hard. And you’re not in a suit now.”

Mycroft’s apprehension was easing, his eyes less guarded. “Are you sure that’s not…I mean…”

“Mycroft,” Greg said softly, “I know talking about this isn’t easy. But I want you to know what I like. So far it’s everything. If you’re keeping track.”

“But some things more than others,” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. “Well, yes,” he said, “but it doesn’t mean it has to be like that all the time. It doesn’t mean I want it to be like that all the time.” He smiled and took Mycroft’s hand. “Right now, for example, the very idea of you doing…what we were about to do was…evocative.” He deliberately used the same word Mycroft had, hoping for a smile.

It was slight, but it was there.

Good.

“I find your erudition when it comes to,” Mycroft took a deep breath, “sex, challenging.”

“I know,” Greg said quietly. He squeezed Mycroft’s hand. The silence sat between them for a few minutes. “You said you had a few ideas,” he said. “I figured if you wanted to try something it might be easier to do than to say.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows dipped. “I’m not sure…what if it’s not something you’d want to…”

Greg smiled gently. “Unless you’re talking something pretty far out…I’m familiar with most of the standard stuff.” He huffed a laugh as his brain supplied a range of scenarios starring he and Mycroft. “It’s a fairly safe bet I’d be interested if you’re gonna be involved.”

Mycroft lifted a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Okay, then,” Greg said. “I can take that as a challenge and start listing sex acts, and you can tell me what you want to try,” Mycroft’s face slackened in horror and turned bright pink at the idea, as Greg thought it would, “or,” Greg emphasised, “you could start with what we agree on earlier. And next time, you can show me something else. And I promise,” he kissed Mycroft, a careful reassurance, “I _promise_ , I will tell you if it’s not something I want to do.”

Mycroft sat very quietly. Greg could almost see his mind working, trying to fight the obviously ingrained senses of modesty and selflessness. He was trying to accept that he could ask for this, express an opinion, a desire. A need, for fuck’s sake.

“You promise?” Mycroft asked, then winced.

It did make him sound like a small boy, Greg thought, but it was important. “I promise,” he said gravely.

Mycroft nodded, still quiet. Greg wanted to kiss him, but something told him to let Mycroft make the first move. When it came, the hand on his cheek was gentle, and Greg felt his eyes close before Mycroft’s lips even met his. It was soft, barely more than a press of lips, and Greg breathed in, inhaling the moment.

“Will you lie down again for me?” Mycroft asked. The words were almost fearful, but Greg felt his cock twitch at the implication. His erection had waned completely during the unexpectedly serious conversation, but even the idea of lying down for Mycroft to explore him started him filling out again.

With a final press of lips, Greg lay down, closing his eyes again. The break had taken the edge off his arousal, and he felt far more in control this time. Hopefully he’d last a little longer now.

The touch to his shoulder was the same, but Greg didn’t flinch this time. Less surprising and less on edge, he figured. He tried to banish the analytical thoughts, wanting to just experience this. Find out how Mycroft would go about it, what he would want to try…

_Just feel._

Mycroft’s hand ran down Greg’s arm, palm brushing skin this time, still gentle. The gooseflesh rose again, and Greg heard Mycroft exhale, a long slow breath out.

_He can see it. Knows it can’t be faked. Reassuring._

Greg concentrated on his breathing, knowing it hitched as the path changed, as the hand continued down from his fingers to hip and along his leg. Another jump of his cock, disappointed this time at being left out; Greg allowed the slight groan to slip out as the touch ignored it. Mycroft’s weight shifted on the bed as he reached, swirling across the top of Greg’s foot, barely brushing the arch of his foot before moving up again. As the bed dipped Greg found himself holding his breath; so much for steady breathing.

As Mycroft’s fingers continued to trail over his skin Greg felt himself relax, melting into the bed at the slow exploration. His skin was warming, becoming sensitised as Mycroft learned his body. He lingered over Greg’s scars, tracing their shape. Greg wondered if he would ask, then if he already knew…then it didn’t matter.

Mycroft shifted, the bed sinking as he settled himself between Greg’s knees, parting them a little. The brush of a heavy cock across his knee made Greg groan loud, and he locked his knee hard into the bed, not wanting to accidentally hit Mycroft with a literal kneejerk reaction.

He was breathing harder now; bending his knees to allow Mycroft space made him more exposed. He imagined Mycroft looking at him, at his naked body, spread and waiting to be touched, explored. Kissed, perhaps, or stroked.

Greg shivered. He opened his eyes to see exactly what he had imagined – Mycroft, kneeling on the duvet, eyes roving over his skin. He looked wonderful; skin flushed, though it had barely been touched, cock jutting out from his body as he surveyed the naked skin before him.

When his eyes moved up, Greg expected him to look away. He did not, holding Greg’s gaze as one hand pressed to his inner thigh, fingers curling over the top of his quads. Slowly the hand started stroking upward, Greg’s cock pulsing at the possibility of feeling those long fingers wrapping around him again. Mycroft’s face was impassive, giving away nothing as his hand did not stop until he was bracketing the crease between thigh and torso.

When his thumb twitched against Greg’s perineum, the moan was hopeful; Greg couldn’t help it, and when the twitch turned into light rubbing, teasing the sensitive skin, Greg moaned again, a deep release of the skittering tension now gripping him low in the belly. He saw Mycroft’s eyes flicker to one side, an indecision pass across them, though his thumb did not stop.

“Here,” Greg said, a sudden certainty about what Mycroft was looking at. He fumbled for the lube, struggling to pick it up in one hand (it was bloody enormous), but finally dumping it near his hip, within Mycroft’s reach. The relieved expression was enough to tell Greg he’d interpreted the look correctly, but Mycroft had a different thanks in mind.

“Thank you,” he murmured, dipping forward to open his mouth against the head of Greg’s cock, tongue sweeping over to collect the pre-come that had gathered there. He was there and gone in an instant, and the instinctive buck of Greg’s hips hit empty air as he clenched his jaw against a flood of expletives. His head pressed into the bed as he breathed hard through his nose, grasping at the sheets.

“Fuck, Mycroft,” he breathed when he’d pulled himself back enough to talk. “Please…”

Mycroft’s hand had not moved, thumb still working slowly through Greg’s reaction. It continued for a long moment as Greg breathed, hearing how ragged it sounded. Christ, and after barely a touch. Perhaps this wouldn’t take as long as he’d thought.

Mycroft’s head lowered again and Greg braced himself, but this kiss this time was to the other side of his hip. Mycroft buried his face between hip and cock, kissing, ignoring – or possibly encouraging, Greg could not be sure – the gentle rut of cock against the side of his face.

It wasn’t enough, to Greg’s frustration. A whisper of soft skin, the gentle friction of hair against the head of his cock. It was teasing, drawing groans from Greg, a panting rush of desire he knew would ramp him high without pushing him over. Shaking, he laid one hand on Mycroft’s head, feeling the strands run through his fingers.

Mycroft moaned, scraping his teeth once over Greg’s skin before shifting his mouth and hand at once.

Greg barely had time to register the change before he felt _warm, tight, slow_ of a hand around his cock and _wet, light, oh God_ behind his balls. Mycroft was kissing him there, one hand pushing on the back of his thighs, silently asking him to tilt up, give him more space.

As if Greg would say no to _that_. He tilted his hips, raising one leg over Mycroft’s back, the other spread wide, shamelessly making all the room he could. If this was what Mycroft was worried about, Greg was all for it. He was panting hard now, the sensations from Mycroft’s hand more than the side of his head but still too light and slow to really be enough.

“Oh God,” Greg groaned.

Mycroft was gaining confidence, his lips moving more firmly against Greg, making his perineum wet as he lavished attention on the area. Greg felt a warm press _oh God, that’s his tongue_ and knew the jump of his cock was noted by the briefly tighter grip around him, the swipe of a thumb through the leak of pre-come. His mouth was moving constantly and now Mycroft moved, nose nuzzling the back of Greg’s balls, licking a little when a stream of moans littered the air.

Greg couldn’t have stopped them if he’d tried. Initially he told himself to make sure he was vocal, giving Mycroft feedback so he knew what was good and what was really good. Now, he couldn’t control himself if he tried. All his self-control was coming from not rutting hard, grasping Mycroft’s hand in his own, tightening the grip and tugging on his hair. If he was asked right now what was good, he would say everything.

Greg let himself go, tilting his hips as much as he could to allow Mycroft access, taking in the puffs of breath over wet skin, the gentle suck on each of his testicles in turn, the hand now gently holding and squeezing his cock in time with the movement below. He knew the sheets were tangled in his hands, felt the tightness in his face that said his eyes were clenched, but otherwise…the world was Mycroft. Mycroft’s mouth, and nose and tongue, _Oh God, his tongue_ …

It was gradually moving in the other direction now, back from his balls, and Greg could hardly believe…was Mycroft considering…surely not...

When he stopped, mouth pressed squarely to Greg’s perineum, he didn’t know what was happening. Mycroft was breathing hard, but his lips weren’t moving. Was he pausing for breath, wondering if Greg would be interested in rimming, or was he not interested, trying to figure out if Greg expected it?

The stillness settled over both of them, Greg in an agony of indecision. Should he make some indication to Mycroft, or would that be too pushy? He hated to think of Mycroft stuck, unable to choose and dying inside of mortification…

Fortunately the moment passed. Rising, Mycroft pushed on Greg’s raised thigh, urging him to roll over.

Without thinking, he did, limbs clumsy, gasping as Mycroft pulled on his hips, bringing him up to his knees. He’d barely caught his balance before Mycroft’s mouth was on him again, kissing wet and firm against the back of his balls, fingers gripping into the crease at the front of his thighs, holding him there.

Greg shouted, “Oh!”, a shudder wracking through him at the explicitness of this position. If he’d felt exposed earlier, lying on his back, Mycroft between his knees, this was far more so. The implications were different, too; far more intimate, even without the man’s tongue pressing on his perineum as it was right now. He felt his breath change, hitching with every millimetre shift. _Is this it…is he moving...no he’s not…maybe…maybe…_

“Oh, God, please, Mycroft…please…” Greg said, the words bursting out on a sob. It was torture, exquisite and so pleasurable he was almost bursting, but it was still torture. He wanted more. More Mycroft, more of whatever this extraordinary man was ready to give him.

Greg pressed his face into the fabric, trying to relax, trying to communicate his eagerness for Mycroft to drift his mouth upwards, to press _there_ , explore him _there_.

Later, Greg wouldn’t really believe it had worked, but in the moment, as his brain begged _Please please please_ and Mycroft’s mouth nuzzled closer, tongue flicking nervously over skin, he wondered if it _had_ worked. Because he could feel his muscles fluttering as Mycroft moved closer, could feel himself almost whining with need as a hesitant hot breath puffed over his most sensitive skin.

Greg knew his abs were clenching, thighs shaking as he fought to stay relaxed there while the rest of him was ramping up with every unstable breath into his lungs – and across his skin.

It felt like an age before warm wet mouth pressed onto him, covering his entrance, tongue pressing flat against the muscle there.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Greg shouted, and he was so close, so close…

Mycroft swirled his tongue just once, and Greg was gone.

It rippled through him and he felt tight fingers on his hips, roughness against his arse, hot breath ghosting over him as he felt his body emptying. Fire under his skin, the pressure of muscles tensing for an impossibly long time, roughness in his throat, the pulse in his ear.

When the ripples slowed Greg felt hands guiding him down to the side and he collapsed, not even aware of how weak his arms felt until they trembled as he rolled onto his side.

“Greg…” Mycroft’s voice was a whisper, coupled to the arm curled over him.

He was breathing hard, still figuring out what had happened.

_Fuck, I came as soon as he…bloody hell._

“I hope…” Greg’s throat was dry and he swallowed, noting the rawness of it. “I hope that shows you how I feel about rimming.”

“I…yes.” Mycroft’s voice was strained, and Greg realised belatedly that he was holding his body away from Greg, still breathing unevenly…

“Can I assume you’re in favour too?” Greg asked, turning to face Mycroft. “Because I would love to do that for you.” He snaked one hand down Mycroft’s body, fingertips drifting over the cock still straining. “Right now, if you wanted.”

“Actually,” Mycroft breathed, eyes closing as Greg’s hand closed over him, “this might be enough.” His head lowered, forehead pressing against Greg’s chin as his hips jerked.

Greg tightened his grip reflexively, listening as Mycroft’s breath quickened. Barely a dozen breaths and he was gasping Greg’s name, painting come between them. The feel of his cock pulsing in their joined hands was electric and Greg realised he was murmuring encouragement as Mycroft twitched in his hand.

He eased his hand away as Mycroft’s hips stilled, sliding it over his hip as Mycroft breathed a deep, shaking breath.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg gasped a laugh, his own heart beating fast after Mycroft’s fast desperate orgasm. “Pretty sure I should be thanking you,” he said. “For the record I’d be up for doing that again. Hopefully I could last a little longer next time.”

“You were…it was perfect,” Mycroft told him haltingly. “Do not feel that you should hold back your…climax next time.”

“Not hold back?” Greg said, grinning. He tilted Mycroft’s head up, peering into the embarrassed eyes. “Mycroft, I _was_ holding back. I mean, trying not to come.”

Mycroft frowned at him. “What?”

“Christ,” Greg said, “You really don’t realise…I almost came when you kissed my cock before. And I’d been thinking it was good we had that talk, it calmed me down, but then,” he shuddered joyfully at the memory, “you were pretty amazing. For all of it. I mean, fuck…”

“I enjoyed it too,” Mycroft whispered, almost cringing at his admission.

“I know,” Greg said. “Now I really want to kiss you but I’d rather you brush your teeth if it’s okay.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, scrambling immediately from the bed. Greg followed him, grinning, wetting a cloth and cleaning his chest and stomach as Mycroft brushed and rinsed with mouthwash.

“Antibacterial,” Greg said with raised eyebrows. “Do you think-”

“Do not mention my brother,” Mycroft said, stepping across the small bathroom to turn on the shower. “Certainly not now.”

“It was just a thought,” Greg said, pressing a cuddle to Mycroft’s back. He was always tactile after sex; the meaningful kind at least – and this certainly felt like it. Pressing his cheek to Mycroft’s skin, he breathed deeply, taking in the scent of Mycroft’s skin, the sweat and sex underlying it. _I helped do that._

When the water was hot, and steam billowed into the room Mycroft turned, kissing Greg without preamble. It was slow and wet as he stepped backwards under the water, bringing a willing Greg with him until they both had to breathe. Greg chased Mycroft’s mouth out of the water, keeping the water flowing over his shoulders as they kissed. It was warm and intimate, filling Greg with the kind of peace only an unspoken understanding can bring. He wasn’t sure about a lot of things – even this was still only just this side of unbelievable – but in this moment, he and Mycroft were perfect together, and he relished it.

 

 

They showered slowly, washing sweat and come from skin until both were pink and warm. The towels were huge and fluffy, and as Greg wrapped Mycroft in one, sent a silent thanks to Sherlock – or whomever had actually done the organising. As annoying as this all was, at least they’d have good towels.

“Is something amusing?” Mycroft asked.

“Just appreciating the towels,” Greg said. “Why don’t we get dressed and I can make us something to eat?”

“We only just ate,” Mycroft protested, following Greg out.

Greg ignored it, pulling track pants and a t-shirt from his bag and dressing. When he turned to face Mycroft, there was a curious expression on his face. “What?” Greg asked self-consciously.

“You are not wearing any pants, Greg,” Mycroft told him.

“Nope,” Greg replied. “Far more comfortable in old track pants. He studied Mycroft’s face. “Is that a problem?” His tone was teasing, but as the possibility occurred to him that it was in fact a problem, he added seriously, “I can get changed if you’d rather.”

“No,” Mycroft said, his face resigned. “I would prefer you to be comfortable.”

“And you uncomfortable?” Greg asked.

“Not uncomfortable,” Mycroft protested. “Aware, perhaps.”

“Of me with no pants,” Greg clarified, a smile slowly growing on his face.

“Exactly,” Mycroft replied a little uncomfortably.

“I’m pretty sure this was meant to be a sex holiday,” Greg told him, folding his arms. “I want to be ready at all times.”

“Really,” Mycroft said. “At all times, Gregory?”

Greg snorted at him; the challenging tone couldn’t mean what he thought it could. “I’m calling bullshit on this, Mycroft. There’s no way you could be ready again…”

He trailed off as Mycroft, without changing expression, dropped his towel, revealing exactly how ready he was. Again.

“As you were saying?” Mycroft said, face pink again, though his arms were crossed over his chest and not his erection.

“Bloody hell, Mycroft,” Greg choked. “How old are you, exactly?” As he spoke, and his eyes remained on Mycroft’s rapidly filling cock, Greg knew he was in no position to throw stones – his own body was reacting to Mycroft’s obvious arousal.

“Not too old, apparently,” Mycroft said, and for all the hesitance he’d shown so far, the smile he now gave Greg was positively self-assured. Greg’s mouth went dry as Mycroft walked over to him and pressed his mouth to Greg’s ear. “Would you like to-”

Greg didn’t even wait for him to finish. “Yes,” he said, stepping back only far enough to strip off the t-shirt and track pants he’d been wearing for all of thirty seconds.

Mycroft followed him, his breath uneven as he said in Greg’s ear, “You are beautiful.”

“Did you…what did you want to do?” Greg asked. His own voice was unsteady. Christ, he’d gone from zero to this faster than he even thought possible. Certainty faster than he had in a very long time. “Show me,” Greg added when Mycroft didn’t move.

Another few long breaths, and Mycroft’s mouth shifted, kissing Greg, light and careful and then deeper, pressing his tongue into Greg’s mouth, fingers pushing him back until they stood beside the bed.

Not knowing what Mycroft was thinking was kind of working for him, Greg thought, as Mycroft’s hands skimmed up and down his back, their cocks brushing, a tantalising tease of what might be. He felt warm still from the shower, content to stay here as long as Mycroft wanted; perhaps this was what he wanted. Closeness, just being together. Based on the raging hard on he’d been sporting, Greg was kind of thinking there might be more to the plan. Hoping really – his own erection was throbbing by now, the feather light touches of Mycroft’s silky skin electric.

Greg moaned as Mycroft’s fingernails scraped a little along his back; the change in sensation was unexpected and delicious. Before he could hope for more, Mycroft’s hands drifted down to cup Greg’s arse. Long fingers dipped to trace the crease under the top of his thighs, pressing into the muscle, circling across the skin. He wasn’t pulling Greg closer, seemingly content for the separation between their bodies as his hands drew blood to the surface, sensitising Greg’s skin as they learned his shape, the texture of him.

It was like a drug. Much as Greg yarned for more, an escalation of their sexual contact, he could stay here all day, kissing Mycroft, feeling his hands learn him, adore him.

Greg kissed harder, bringing his hands up to cup Mycroft’s face, turning to deepen it before drawing back. Mycroft was matching him, the surge and retreat keeping him occupied as his hands gentled across Greg’s arse. This was not foreplay. This was the act within itself, and it was glorious; Greg was amazed to think the intimacy they had shared in the shower could be bested. Here he was, though, kissing Mycroft and being kissed, deep and precious before tender and light.

“Greg,” Mycroft breathed, as their lips brushed.

Greg hummed in response, thumbs brushing cheekbones, keeping it light in case Mycroft wanted to say something. Nothing eventuated, and as Mycroft deepened the kiss Greg relaxed into it. He was floating, blissing out on the sureness of it all. Their kisses were deep, tongue pressing, tasting along teeth and the roofs of mouths, but there was no urgency to it. Inevitably, things lightened; it was part of the rhythm that was swirling through them.

“Greg,” Mycroft spoke again, words brushing with lips across Greg’s.

Another hum in response, and a shot of adrenalin as Mycroft said, “I’m going to…I want to…” but faltered.

“Okay,” Greg said, dropping kisses against Mycroft’s mouth. “I trust you.”

Mycroft’s mouth was pressed hard, taking Greg’s breath away as he responded in kind, accepting Mycroft’s insistent tongue, accepting the emotion flooding across in the kiss. Greg could feel him trembling, hands still rubbing circles, breathing less controlled than it had been.

Greg could feel himself waiting, now that he knew there was more to come. Anticipation rushed through him and he fought to steady his own breathing, waiting for Mycroft to change something.

The pressure didn’t change, but Mycroft’s hands drifted lower, slowing as fingers pressed inward. Greg’s breath hitched as one hand pressed against his inner thigh, and he lifted his foot to widen his stance; he wasn’t ready for Mycroft to keep pressing, lifting his foot to rest on the edge of the bedframe.

As he realised how open he now was, Greg groaned. Mycroft’s fingers were now cupping under his arse, reaching further in as they caressed him, firm pressure parting his skin.

“Fuck,” he whispered, breaking their kiss to rest his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder. The fingers didn’t stop, tracing against his skin, now drifting up and down his cleft, making space as they brushed his skin, careful like a promise.

Mycroft kissed Greg’s temple and withdrew his hands, one sitting carefully on his waist as Mycroft leaned to the side. Greg watched with hooded eyes as Mycroft’s free hand found the lube he hadn’t needed earlier, pumping it onto his fingers. The implication was clear and Greg’s cock jumped.

 _Not this time,_ he told himself sternly. Given how recently he’d come – and come hard – it was less likely, but Mycroft was proving to be astonishingly arousing and Greg still wasn’t completely certain what Mycroft had in mind. _Hopefully not this time_ , he amended.

When Mycroft stood up, he met Greg’s eyes, a little questioning and uncertain.

“Please,” Greg asked him, taking his face again, kissing deeply. “I want you inside me,” he added, figuring clarity wouldn’t hurt.

Mycroft kissed him back hard, stepping in far closer this time, curling his fingers directly into Greg’s cleft, the cool gel making him shiver.

Greg thought he’d be super tentative, teasing and circling.

He wasn’t.

The long, dry fingers of one hand spread him wide, while one finger of the other, slick along its length, made one firm circle before breaching Greg’s entrance.

“Bear down for me,” Mycroft said hoarsely, and the words were so unexpected Greg gasped, bearing down by accident, drawing Mycroft into his body.

“Fuck,” Greg said, reaching down to grasp Mycroft’s wrist where it was about to withdraw. “Don’t you dare,” he said. “You feel amazing.”

Mycroft nevertheless remained still for a long moment as Greg breathed, allowing his body to become accustomed to what was now inside him.

When he felt himself ease, Greg kissed Mycroft hard, one hand in his hair as he asked, “More. Please. Move, or…m-more.”

Slowly, Mycroft curled inside him and Greg groaned, panting, willing Mycroft to press deeper, to search for his prostate, graze over him.

Mycroft pulled out, slowly, pressed back; there was no searching, but Greg knew his fingers would be long enough if he pressed in far enough. The sensation was enough right now, but Greg knew the arousal slowly pooling inside him would soon demand more.

Mycroft was patient; his hand was slow, finger moving a little inside Greg without actually trying to press on his prostate. His breathing was measured, but the cock pressed between their bellies told Greg there was a fair amount of control being extended right now.

It was as much a turn on as having Mycroft inside him.

Torture again. Agonisingly sweet torture, and Greg loved it.

When Mycroft withdrew his hands again, Greg almost whimpered; the newly slicked return was pure relief. He felt the press again and bore down, moaning Mycroft’s name as two fingers pushed into his body.

“Oh fuck, yes, Mycroft,” Greg panted, feeling himself relax through the discomfort, the familiar fullness of so much of someone inside him.

Mycroft was relentless moving smoothly inside Greg now. His other hand flexed, gripping Greg’s arse opening him further, stretching the tissue even wider.

“My…oh…My, please…” Greg was begging for something. He had no idea what it was; he just knew that this was incredible, Mycroft inside him, filling him up, pulling him open so he could press inside further, and now he was pressing further, searching, and Greg almost reacted before he brushed fingertips against that place inside him.

When it happened Greg bucked, babbling something, feeling it pull on the rawness of his throat; it sparked through him, fading fast as Mycroft eased away.

“Christ,” Greg gasped. He could feel Mycroft moving slowly in him, shallower than before, as though waiting for something. Or thinking about something.

“Turn,” Mycroft said suddenly, his fingers easing out, leaving Greg gasping and empty, muscles clenching around nothing.

“What?” Greg said, looking blearily at Mycroft. The hands on his hips were clear, and he turned, facing the bed, heart beating fast, eyes blinking in confusion. Only when the hand pressed between his shoulder blades did a rush of understanding come over him. Hands braced on the bed, Greg felt Mycroft’s hands run down his back; he’d barely braced himself before there was a tongue pressing wet and insistent against his entrance.

Greg shouted loud, concentrating on the pain in his throat to stave off his orgasm. It was a close thing but he did. Once through the initial moment, the sensation eased back and he was close but not on the edge.

Mycroft was clearly out to enjoy himself – and make sure Greg did. His tongue traced circles in wide, wet swipes, teasing the muscle already relaxed from Mycroft’s fingers. The panting breaths, hot as they puffed against his wet skin, told Greg how much this was affecting Mycroft. The thought tugged the coil in his belly even tighter, and he bit the sheets hard, desperately pushing back his orgasm.

Greg groaned at Mycroft’s attentions. He was floating on a sea of arousal; only his locked out elbows were preventing him from faceplanting, all his focus on Mycroft and the skin he was so enthusiastically lavishing attention on. Every twitch was electric; when Mycroft pressed the tip of his tongue inside him, probing as far as he could, Greg moaned again. He wanted more, _more…_

And then there was more. Mycroft was standing up, pulling Greg up with him, pressing two fingers in him again…something was tight around his cock and there were words in his ear…

“Let go,” Mycroft whispered. “Move for me…please, Greg…”

Greg felt his hips pump, and then something pressed that spot inside, and he ceased to be. Everything moved, muscles clenched deep inside, white took over his vision; something wrapped around his chest, holding him upright as he felt his body tense and release, again and again.

As the world came back to him slowly, Greg knew only one thing: Mycroft.

 _Mycroft_.

Fingers eased out of him as he pushed at the arm across his chest, wincing at the discomfort as he turned, sucking hard on Mycroft’s neck, fumbling below his waist to see…and there it was, Mycroft’s cock still hard, wetness running down it, pulsing against Greg’s hand.

Gasping he dropped to the bed, barely feeling where the fabric stuck to his still-slick arse, too intent on getting Mycroft’s cock in his mouth.

Whether he was just that close or genuinely didn’t know it was Greg’s plan, Mycroft shouted as Greg’s mouth enveloped him, fingers grabbing at Greg’s hair as his hips canted.

Greg groaned around it, raising his eyes, pressing his own hands onto Mycroft’s, twisting fingers deeper into his hair. He wanted nothing more now than for Mycroft to come hard down his throat, shouting as loud as Greg had, feeling the same incredible release.

Only a few thrusts, and the bitter pre-come was washed away, Mycroft pressing his cock to the back of Greg’s throat, pulsing down, head thrown back. Greg’s eyes were streaming but he kept his jaw relaxed, allowing Mycroft to use him. It seemed like the least he could do after Mycroft’s carte blanche had turned into ‘see how much you can turn Greg on without a single touch’. Twice, for that matter.

When Mycroft’s hands softened, fingertips caressing his head, Greg eased back, popping his mouth off the end of Mycroft’s cock with a deliberately theatrical sound.

“C’mere,” he said, throat sounding very rough now. All that noise and a blow job will do it to you, he told himself. He pulled Mycroft up to collapse on the bed, hoping for a dozy, post-coital cuddle.

Instead Mycroft stiffened as he hit the bed, and Greg knew why – they’d laid back right across the now cold and coagulated come from the last time Greg had spent himself across the sheets. Before the shower, before they’d gotten so distracted getting dressed that he’d come _again_ over their sheets.

“Oh, damn it, sorry, sorry,” Greg babbled. They stood looking at the bed, the double evidence of their efforts so far that day.

“Do not apologise,” Mycroft murmured. He paused then added, “I do hope there are spare sheets, as I did not see laundry space.”

“Definitely at least one set in the cupboard,” Greg told him. He grinned. “Well I’m probably done for the day but you know what this means.”

“Do I?” Mycroft replied in surprise.

“No more sex in the bed,” Greg replied with a grin. “New rule: you – and I – are only allowed to come where it can easily be cleaned up.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied, and Greg decided it was his favourite when his ears turned pink.

“I’m up for another shower,” Greg said. “As long as you can keep yourself under control this time, Mister Holmes.”

“As long as you dress appropriately, I believe I can, Mister Lestrade,” Mycroft replied.

“I will,” Greg said. “Probably.”

“Shower,” Mycroft replied, though his lips twitched suspiciously.


	13. Quiet

The next morning, as Mycroft’s hands found him in the early morning light, Greg had to bite his lip at the breathless words in his ear. “Don’t come on the sheets, Gregory, you know they’re dry clean only.”

“Mycroft,” Greg said warningly, then stopped, groaning as one hand disappeared only to return, slipping down the back of his pyjama trousers. Fingers pressed against his entrance, and then everything was soft and warm and full as he listened to Mycroft breath in his ear, gentle moans from both filling the air.

“Are you…can you…” Greg gasped as he grew closer. _More, I want more…_

“Demanding again today,” Mycroft said, trying for the bored tone of the power broker and failing miserably.

“Again?” Greg managed.

“You begged for more yesterday too,” Mycroft told him, lips tracing the curve of his shoulder.

“I did?” Greg whispered, remembering how much he’d wanted Mycroft, how amazing it had been that his internal requests had been met so easily. “I didn’t realise.”

“I…I liked it,” Mycroft admitted, a shade of embarrassment colouring his admission.

Greg’s eyes closed for a minute as he tried to keep himself together. “I want more,” he whispered, hearing his voice break a little. “Please, Mycroft…I want you. Want more. Give me more, please…” It felt a little theatrical, a little bit over the top; he hoped Mycroft wouldn’t think he was taking the piss.

Evidently not.

There was a pause, and Mycroft’s face pressed into Greg’s shoulder, his hips rutting twice before he could control it again. The sound he made was strangled, his fingers stilled, and Greg wondered if one of them was about to come right then, just from the invitation.

“Your drawer,” Mycroft managed, his voice strained. “Condoms, Greg…”

Nodding frantically, trying to ignore the spike of desire at what that meant Greg reached, fumbling through the drawer, finally dragging a line of condoms out, individual packets still connected as they had been in the box.

“A little optimistic, don’t you think?” Mycroft murmured, and Greg couldn’t help himself; he burst out laughing. It turned into a groan as Mycroft eased his fingers out, reaching for the pack; he tore the end packet open, fingers shaking.

Greg rolled over, shoving his pyjamas down his legs, reaching for Mycroft’s t-shirt, tangling arms as Mycroft tried to reach for his pyjamas, condom still in his hands, both of them fumbling in their haste.

Like the previous day, the change in atmosphere was a relief initially; Greg still felt the pull of arousal without it overwhelming him, as he watched Mycroft ready himself, shoving the blankets back impatiently. When Mycroft laid him down on his side the anticipation fluttered in him again, arousal and excitement and nerves pooling together. He turned back, kissing Mycroft over his shoulder, soft and chaste.

Mycroft breathed hard, forehead pressing against Greg’s temple.

“Are you…please tell me if this is not…something you want…” Mycroft said, the obvious anxiety in his words and tone.

“I want you in me. Please Mycroft,” Greg told him, eyes still closed, foreheads still touching. “Please, fill me up. More, remember? More…”

Mycroft groaned and kissed him hard. He was shaking a little as they parted; Greg tilted his hips, inviting Mycroft, offering himself. He felt Mycroft settle behind, cock sitting under him, pressing his balls forward. Greg held his breath as Mycroft drew his hips back then forward, the blunt pressure against his entrance tentative.

“Please,” Greg whispered, hoping the sound would encourage Mycroft.

A shuddering breath, a hand on his cock, pressure, pressure…

_Yes…_

Greg felt Mycroft breach him, wide and full. It was the same sensation he’d felt at the first press of a finger but a thousand times fuller, more overwhelming…

More right.

He bore down, moaning aloud at the stretch. Mycroft was in him, part of him. Choosing him.

Lips on the back of his neck, shaking breaths, fingers pressing into his hips, pleasure building slowly – the world was sensation, sharp and hot, easing back as Mycroft waited for him, spiking again at the first movements. Slow waves were swirling inside him, the pleasure amassing inside. Greg could feel the groans pulling at his throat, scraping at the already raw tissue. There was nothing he could do about it, the restlessness of his growing arousal pushing the sound out of him as he chased, chased...

_More, more, I need more._

He must have spoken aloud again, because Mycroft’s fingers were insistent and he was rolling, turning, his face pressing into the mattress, Mycroft pressing further into him as their bodies aligned from shoulders to knees.

For half a dozen breaths they didn’t move until Greg, face craned around as far as he could manage whispered hoarsely, “Please, Mycroft. More…”

A strangled growl and hands skidded down his arms, locking fingers together before Mycroft moved. His weight eased back, giving Greg more space to breathe, to raise his head and moan as Mycroft’s hips finally shifted. He pulled away, sliding almost out of Greg, hesitating before snapping forward.

The shout still burned in Greg’s throat when it registered that Mycroft was still moving, fast and hard, hands clenching so hard Greg’s pain blurred into the pleasure, his mind overwhelmed with sensation. The rocking motion set his own cock rubbing against the sheets, the little friction enough to edge him closer, to add the sharp edge he needed…

“Oh…My…Mycroft…oh, fuck…” Greg felt himself clench, dropping over the edge into a blinding orgasm, his throat full of razor blades, body spasming out of control. He was vaguely aware of Mycroft’s hands even harder on his, of the rhythm failing as Mycroft’s hips stuttered then pressed into him. A long drawn out groan, and Mycroft went limp, breathing harsh in Greg’s ear, weak moans punctuating occasional puffs.

With a wince, Greg shifted his hips, the wet mess under him uncomfortably sticky. His movement prompted Mycroft to raise his weight, one hand reaching to secure the condom before he eased himself out.

“Apologies,” Mycroft murmured, the accompanying sounds telling Greg he was dealing with the condom. Greg hummed as Mycroft rolled back, one arm and one leg landing on Greg’s exposed back.

“Wafor,” Greg mumbled. At Mycroft’s interrogatory sound, he made the enormous effort, shaping the words intelligibly. “What for?”

“Making you come on the sheets,” Mycroft replied, his voice still rich and deep, laced with amusement.

Greg grinned, knowing it was lopsided but still too wiped out to put more energy into it. His limbs were leaden, washed through with the satisfied warmth of a truly astonishing orgasm. “No problem,” he replied. “You pay the bill, though.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, nosing lazily along Greg’s chin.

They didn’t speak for a few moments, and Greg would have drifted off had it not been for the stickiness between him and the sheets. He groaned, wishing he could slip back into sleep. The desire not to have to peel the sheets off his groin in a few hours was greater than his fatigue, however, and he shifted, sitting up gingerly.

“Do we have any more linen?” Greg asked, grinning to himself at the roughness in his own voice. The discomfort in his throat was eclipsed by that lower down, but it was worth every twinge. He leaned over, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s shoulder. “I’ll have a look while I clean up.”

There were no more sheets he could see, though plenty of washcloths were under the sink in the bathroom. Greg nabbed his pyjama trousers on the way back, grinning to himself at the now sleeping figure of Mycroft on the bed. Coffee would be an excellent continuation of his day, and he hummed to himself as he set up enough for two. The water seemed to take ages to boil, and he found his gaze drawn outside to the rolling hills, the silent stillness of the country bringing a smile to him as he realised its significance.

He was still smiling as he brought the coffee through to Mycroft.

“Hey,” he said, not necessarily wanting to wake Mycroft but unable to resist sharing the news. “I’ve got coffee.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed. “I can smell it.”

“And also…” Greg deliberately allowed his voice to trail off. Not until a grey eye opened to meet him did Greg continue. “It’s lovely and still outside. Quiet.”

“Yes?” Mycroft asked, still lying down.

Greg waited five seconds, amused at the complete lack of interest Mycroft was showing. “Decidedly less…bovine,” Greg added, pulling his coffee out of the way before Mycroft could hit it in his haste to sit up.

“Gone?” he asked, eyes open.

“From what I could see out the kitchen window,” Greg confirmed. “I mean, I’ll…”

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Raised eyebrows met raised eyebrows and Greg shrugged. He was the most dressed, so he swung his legs out and walked over to the main door, wondering who would be visiting way out here…and who would knock?

He opened the door to an older man with an amused look on his weathered face, arms crossed over a flannel shirt.

“Alright?” The man was clearly a farmer.

Probably _the_ farmer, Greg thought. “Yeah,” Greg said. “You’re the farmer, I’m guessing.”

“Frank Woodley,” the man said. “Nah, I won’t come in, me boots are terrible,” he said as Greg opened the door. “Just wanted to check on how you’re doing.”

“Fine, ta,” Greg replied. “Since you’re here, though…wondering what the deal is? With us here, I mean.”

Frank rolled his eyes and grinned. “Doing a favour for a friend, you might say.”

“Really,” Greg said. “A friend?”

“Well, I owed him a favour, might be more accurate,” Frank replied.

“That makes more sense,” Greg said. “Assuming we’re talking about Sherlock.”

“We would be,” Frank said. “So you’re all okay here?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “But we don’t really know what’s going on.” When Frank looked confused, Greg added, “I mean, Sherlock kind of…didn’t tell us much. Like how long we’re here for, or where we are, really.”

“Sounds like him,” Frank said. “You’re good for the week.” He turned to gesture up the hill. “Follow the path, you’ll hit our place, Mary will see you right, get you home when you’re ready.”

“Right,” Greg said, amused. “And did Sherlock ask you to drop in?”

“Not for a few days,” Frank admitted. “But he’s a sneaky bastard when he wants to be, and I thought I should check on you anyway.”

“Cheers,” Greg said. The grinned at each other again, a mutual understanding clear between them.

“Well, I’ll know when you’re done,” Frank said. “Mary couldn’t keep her mouth shut if God himself asked it of her.”

He turned to leave, but Greg said, “Oh, I noticed the cows are gone,” and he turned back.

“They are,” he said.

“And, how long til they’re back?” Greg asked. “And then, you know, gone again?”

“Six days or so,” Frank said. “That’s the cycle that work’s for ‘em.”

“A week,” Greg said. “Right. Well, we might wait it out ‘til then if it’s all the same to you.”

“Surely,” Frank said. “Do you need anything to get you through?”

The thought of the sheets situation did come to mind, but Greg wasn’t really sure how to bring that up. “Um, we didn’t really have a chance to pack,” he said carefully. “Is there a way we could, um…do some washing? Some laundry?”

“Sure,” Frank said. “Are we talking clothes here, or sheets?” Greg felt himself flush like a teenager at the knowing grin on Frank’s face. “Because I could just bring spare sheets, if that’s the case.”

“Um, yeah, that’d be great,” Greg said. “You could just leave them on the doorstep if you like.”

“Sure,” Frank said. “Hate to interrupt.”

“Right,” Greg agreed, feeling like a teenager again somehow.

“Okay then,” Frank said before turning and making his way across the field.

Greg shut the door, shaking his head. Well, it seemed Frank was a lot more perceptive than he’d given credit for. And at least they’d have clean sheets now.

+++

“Hey, Mycroft,” Greg called a few hours later. After his conversation with Frank, he’d returned to find Mycroft asleep, his coffee cooling on the bedside table. Greg had elected to sleep a little longer, tucked up with Mycroft until he’d stirred, slipping out to shower while Mycroft woke more slowly.

While Mycroft showered, Greg heard the thump on the door, assuming it was Frank. He’d given the farmer time to disappear again before cracking the door open and grabbing the bag sitting outside. He’d grinned and groaned at the heft of it – clearly Frank and Mary had their own idea of how many sets he and Mycroft would need. Expecting only linens it had been a surprise to find something else atop the sheets when he opened the bag.

_If you need anything else, best to call. – Frank_

The note sat atop a mobile phone, which, according to the icon, had plenty of reception and battery, despite their apparently remote location.

“Yes?” Mycroft replied, standing behind Greg at the table. He looked at the mobile phone in surprise, then the bag of sheets. “What…where did this come from?”

“Turns out Frank the farmer owed Sherlock a favour,” Greg said. “So you and I are here for a week, until the cows cycle in and out again.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft asked. He voice was threaded with disbelief, and Greg felt his heart expand a little at the expression of astonishment on his face. As quickly as he could, Greg explained the rest of his conversation with Frank. As he spoke Mycroft’s face slowly changed, smiling as he realised their situation.

“So,” Greg continued, as Mycroft edged closer, pressing his body along Greg’s, “I can actually think of a much better use of this phone than calling Frank.”

“It sounds like you’ve a plan, Greg,” Mycroft murmured.

“I do,” Greg replied. He typed a quick message then passed the phone to Mycroft, twisting to press it into the hand sliding over his arse. “Can you do the number?”

Mycroft read the text and his mouth pulled up. He added the phone number before making a point of turning it off and dropping it back onto the linen.

“You know this won’t end with one message, don’t you.” His arms came back around Greg, and from the hardness pressing against his thigh, Greg could guess what he had in mind.

“Yeah,” Greg murmured. “Not sure I care right now.”

 

[message sent]

_Hey Sherlock, thanks for the ‘weekend getaway’ but next time, we’re gonna need a LOT more lube. And sheets, condoms... you get the idea. Cheers, Greg._


	14. Satisfaction

“Are you sure about this?” Greg murmured.

“I am,” Mycroft replied. He smoothed his hands down the collar of Greg’s new coat.

“You’re pretty happy with my new suit, aren’t you?” Greg asked. He was getting used to reading Mycroft’s subtle facial expressions, and he’d seen this particular expression regularly since his new suit had arrived.

“And your shirt, and your coat, and your scarf,” Mycroft added with a far more blatant smirk. He’d been insistent on the whole outfit, and Greg had to admit he’d been right – it was a lot more flattering than even his best ensemble.

“Not really Silver Stud material, though,” Greg murmured, feeling himself lean in automatically. Mycroft had that kind of effect on him now.

“No,” Mycroft agreed. “It’s a good thing we’re not meeting there, isn’t it?”

“Definitely,” Greg said. He glanced up at the gold lettering of _Quirinus_ , remembering the first time they’d had a drink here. “Seriously, though, are you-” A single finger laid over his lips halted his question. “Right, right,” Greg said.

“Shall we?” Mycroft murmured. He opened the door, his hand on Greg’s lower back as they entered the bar together.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Lestrade,” David greeted them, taking their coats and scarves.

Greg allowed Mycroft to walk ahead of him – he did know who he was looking for, after all – and Greg followed him, the space more familiar now that he and Mycroft had been making regular use of their memberships. A flutter went through his belly as he spotted the group in the back for whom Mycroft was obviously heading.

As though he could sense Greg’s unease, Mycroft extended one hand behind him. Greg threaded their fingers together, the familiar slide settling him immediately. He took a deep breath and stepped beside Mycroft as he stopped before the table.

“Good evening,” Mycroft greeted them. A few looked up, recognising Mycroft curious at the unfamiliar face beside him. “Samuel, this is Gregory Lestrade.”

A distinguished looking man stood. He was round and impeccably groomed, offering a smile and handshake to Greg. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, his vowels as rounded as the rest of him. _Jesus, and I thought Mycroft was a bit of posh._

“Thanks,” Greg replied, nodding around at the group. He felt himself sized up with more than one raised eyebrow, and most men turned back to their conversations.

“I’ll go to the bar,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg squeezed his fingers briefly, his heart kicking up a notch. He’d been counting on Mycroft’s chivalry to exact a little petty revenge. As soon as Mycroft was out of earshot, Greg sat, turned a blinding smile to the man he’d sat beside deliberately.

“You must be Douglas!” he said effusively. “Mycroft told me all about you guys.” Greg’s eyes deliberately flicked back and forward up to his hairline. The frown was slight, but he let it show as though he couldn’t work out. _Bingo_ he thought when a hand slid self-consciously up to smooth the uneven hairline.

“I am Lord Douglas,” the man said, looking, if possible, even more offended at Greg’s words than his presence. “You may address me as such.”

“Lord Douglas?” Greg repeated incredulously.

“The Duke of Weselton is my father,” he replied. “James, I will have another drink.”

The man to Douglas’ right jumped up, collecting the empty beer glass. “Another Hobson’s?”

“Of course,” the Duke’s son replied irritably.

As soon as the unfortunate James had scurried to the bar, Greg spoke again.

“You mean Thomas is your dad?” he asked, delighted at the look of indignation as he used the Duke’s given name. “Yeah, Mycroft introduced us at his club last week. We had a good conversation. Nice bloke, Tommy. I thought he said his son was called Thomas, though, like him.”

“My elder brother,” Douglas admitted tightly, and Greg could hear the resentment at having to make the admission. It was beautiful, he thought contentedly.

Greg relaxed, drinking in the outrage radiating from Douglas’ every pore. As he studied the other man’s face, several details presented themselves and he smirked to himself. “So, Dougie – I can call you Dougie, right? – I hear you and I have both met Mycroft’s brother. You and he have a lot in common by my reckoning. Both younger brothers,” he leaned in closer, his voice lowered below the murmur of the other conversations around them, “both with an interest in the pharmaceutical industry.”

The irate look slid from his face, and a more calculating expression replaced it. “I have no connections to the pharmaceutical industry,” he said warily.

Greg studied his face, the reaction not quite what he’d expected – but certainly not unfamiliar, either. “Well, I’ve interviewed a lot of guys on a lot of drugs, and I’d bet good money you’ve got some kind of white powder stashed somewhere in that expensive suit, mate.”

Greg smirked as the man’s expression set. It had been a bit of a blind shot, designed more to piss him off, but it seemed he might have hit pay dirt. It was a new habit, but if there was one thing Greg could spot, it was a drug user. He made a mental note to let Mycroft know. A little leverage against this prick couldn’t hurt.

“I’m not sure this conversation is worth my time,” Douglas said dismissively.

James returned with his beer, placing the glass before him. Douglas didn’t even look in his direction, Greg noticed without surprise. _Wanker._

“Probably not,” Greg said, seeing Mycroft returning from the bar bearing two glasses of wine. “Younger sons aren’t worth the same money as firstborns like me and Mycroft.”

“Mycroft and I,” Douglas corrected him condescendingly.

“Actually, ‘me and Mycroft’ is correct,” Greg retorted. “I may not have a private education but I’m not an idiot.”

He stood up, accepting his wine from Mycroft with a warm smile before turning back, free hand leaning on the back of Douglas’ chair, crowding into his space. The smile on his face was at odds with the cold tone of voice he employed during difficult interviews and occasionally with Sherlock.

“I’ll just give you some advice, though, mate, on a personal level. I’d watch the way you treat Mycroft, because this state school copper is on his side now, and I’m not a fan of bullies with bad hair plugs and a lack of personal grooming.” He leaned over and plucked a single long cat hair from Douglas’ shoulder, dropping it in his beer.

“Oh, and for the record, that beer you’re drinking is brewed from barley, which contains gluten. Something an actual celiac would know.”

He clapped one hand on the man’s shoulder as he rose, squeezing a little harder than was probably necessary before turning away.

“I think I’d prefer a private booth,” Greg said to Mycroft. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, eyes roaming speculatively over Greg’s face. “I will just speak with Samuel.”

“Of course. Please apologise to him for me, but my conversation with Dougie has left me feeling not all that sociable.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replied, a smile tugging at his lip as he leaned forward. “I will need details later, of course,” he said quietly into Greg’s ear.

A fierce thrill ran up Greg’s back. _He chose me_.

“Of course,” Greg replied, locking his eyes with those remarkable greys for a moment before leaving Mycroft and making his way to their usual booth. He sat so he could watch Mycroft, warmth spreading through him as he recognised the professional demenour, the mask he’d put on to deal with this group. Somehow Greg didn’t think Mycroft would be meeting with them anymore. Hell, with any luck Sherlock would drug them both again. By most people’s standards that was not a normal desire, but Greg didn’t care.

Mycroft chose him, and that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, firstly: It's a LOT easier to find a list of drinks without gluten than it is to find a list of drinks with gluten. So if that's wrong, let's all agree to let it go, shall we? Ta muchly.
> 
> Now the end of story notes: Thank you all so much for the support on this! It started as a little drabble on tumblr, the kind of thing an author might throw together to get the plot bunny out of their head before bedtime (ahem). And now it's 14 chapters worth of fun. I hope you've all enjoyed the ride.  
> My apologies to bookjunkiecat, who did request 49 more chapters. I just couldn't quite get there, but I hope this suffices for you my dear.
> 
> The second in this series is actually the artwork BrynTWedge drew for me after we'd brainstormed direction for this - an invaluable conversation, out of which this lovely art was born. Thank you for turning your skill to this for me!


End file.
